Critical Hour
by Slipstream77
Summary: For Peter and Neal, it was an ordinary day, conducting routine FBI business. Until, suddenly, it wasn't. Now COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1 - The Man Who Knows All

**Critical Hour **

Rated T for violence, profanity, and some suggestive dialogue.

Set in the second half of Season 2 after Power Play; spoilers for anything prior to that, especially Power Play and Payback. Any canon events after Power Play have not yet occurred in this story.

I don't own White Collar or these wonderful characters—just playing with them for a while. No copyright infringement intended. Certain aspects of this story were present in the S4 mid-season finale. This story really was written first….

_If you are hesitant to read WIPs, I sympathize. I too have been burned by authors who left their readers hanging. I can only promise you that this story is finished, except for final editing, and that chapters will be posted at regular and frequent intervals._

…...

SUMMARY: For Peter and Neal, it was an ordinary day, conducting routine FBI business. Until, suddenly, it wasn't.

…...

**Chapter 1 – The Man Who Knows All**

"_**Your friend is the man who knows all about you, and still likes you.**__"_

— Elbert Hubbard

* * *

"Wait, we're not going back to the office?"

They were in the car once more, another (boring) witness interview on their money laundering case mercifully concluded. Neal had assumed they'd be heading back to the FBI, probably for a round of (equally mind-numbing) paperwork before the workday ended. But when he looked up from texting Mozzie, he realized Peter was heading . . . somewhere else.

"Not yet. I forgot to tell you; we got our warrant for the warehouse in the museum case," Peter said, patting his pocket. "It's not far away and we've got a little time; figured we'd take a look around."

"Mm. Who doesn't love a good warehouse? Beats doing paperwork," Neal said, distracted. A moment later, belatedly remembering something Peter had mentioned earlier, he added, "I hope this isn't going to interfere with the _something special _you've got planned for tonight."

"Nope." Peter glanced over to see what had Neal so absorbed and found him checking his phone. He'd noticed that Neal often did that while Peter drove.

"So you're going to . . . what?" Neal stayed focused on his phone; he had discovered it was a useful refuge from the stress of looking at the road while Peter was driving. Being in the car with Peter meant long periods of boredom interspersed with moments of heart-pounding anxiety. Finding a distraction usually helped.

"I'm taking El out to dinner."

The light they were waiting for changed to green. Peter started to turn, and then stopped abruptly to wait as a man pushing a double stroller completed his slow journey along the crosswalk. He occupied the time by first tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and then putting on his sunglasses. The afternoon sun had come out in force after a gray, threatening-looking morning.

"Can't go wrong with that," Neal said, interest piqued now. This was not the _let's go grab something for dinner _kind of meal that he knew was more typical for Peter and El (when they didn't feel like eating in). "Where to?"

"Le Bernardin," Peter said, feeling very satisfied with himself. Thinking about his plans for the evening was lifting his spirits; even the unusually-heavy traffic couldn't annoy him today.

"Well, well," Neal said approvingly. "I'm impressed. It's always near the top of the Zagat ratings. For good reason."

Peter nodded.

"Did Elizabeth pick it?"

"No, I did. She doesn't even know yet. I just told her we were going somewhere special and to keep her evening clear."

"Ah. The element of surprise—nice. Ever been there?" Neal would have wagered a large sum that the answer would be _no_.

"No," Peter answered; Neal couldn't help feeling smug that he'd been right. "Of course, I know all about it, though," Peter added.

_I'll bet, _Neal thought. Le Bernardin was well known as among the best in Manhattan; plus, Peter was the type to research even his restaurant choice pretty carefully. Especially when he was trying to impress his wife, as was clearly the case here. Neal was going to delicately point out that Le Bernardin was rather . . . pricey, but Peter would already know that; he was nothing if not thorough. Instead Neal remarked, "Don't take this the wrong way, Peter, but it doesn't exactly seem like your kind of place."

Peter switched his gaze away from the street so that he could give Neal a mildly irritated look. "I think I've just been insulted."

"Eyes on the road, please? Hey, I _said_ not to take it the wrong way!" Neal protested quickly. "It's a simple observation about your culinary tastes based on . . . long experience." _Long experience of you seeming to prefer hot dogs on the grill to pretty much anything else_. "I'm merely making a totally innocent comment."

Peter snorted. "As if anything you do is totally innocent."

"I'll have you know that I resent that." Neal said, looking affronted. "I have my innocent moments."

"Yeah, and occasionally the blind squirrel finds a nut." He glanced over again, just in time to catch Neal rolling his eyes.

A few minutes later, they were close to the edge of the warehouse district, and traffic had thinned considerably. Finally Peter was able to pick up a little speed.

Of course, Neal noticed. When Peter got behind the wheel, Neal tended to notice _everything. _Even things that, in Peter's opinion, weren't really there. Like _recklessness_. Like _speeding. _Like—

"You know, Peter, you might want to slow it down," Neal said, that familiar little edge to his voice that he always got when he complained about Peter's driving. "Because you'll miss out on the opportunity to shell out hundreds of dollars for dinner at Le Bernardin tonight if we're killed in the next five minutes. I would imagine that your dying—and missing dinner—would make Elizabeth awfully angry."

"Hey, it's damned hard to get a reservation at that place; I'd hope she'd go anyway," Peter joked. Neal liked to think of himself as eternally unpredictable, but when it came to his reaction to Peter's driving habits, he was anything but. "And, by the way, your paranoia about my driving is really getting out of hand."

"So is your Juan Montoya impression," Neal shot back.

Peter chuckled. "Now that I think about it, it's almost becoming a phobia," he added, adopting a serious air and arranging his face into a concerned frown.

"A _phobia_?" Neal repeated, sounding amused. "I do not have phobias."

"Oh, really? Think about it. What is a phobia, but an irrational fear? Now, have I ever had an accident when you were in the car?"

"Well, you've come pretty close—"

"Yes or no, Neal."

"No," Neal admitted grudgingly.

"That's right. And have I ever had a car accident of any kind?" Peter pressed.

"The way you drive?" Neal asked, with just a hint of derision in his voice. "I would imagine you must have."

"The answer, again, is _no,_" Peter said, sounding superior.

"Wow," Neal drawled, elongating the word in a tone of excessive wonderment. "If you're telling the truth, then miracles really do happen."

"_If I'm telling the truth._" Peter repeated, shaking his head. "As if I'd lie about something like that."

"You're an FBI agent. You could probably . . . cover it up, or something."

"Yes, because I am the master of the cover-up," Peter observed dryly. "You sound like Mozzie. Ask anyone else who's driven with me. Ask Elizabeth."

"Oh, please." Neal waved a dismissive hand. "She's your wife. Of course, she'd back you.'

"Well, yeah, probably," Peter admitted. "Bad example. But the fact remains: I have never had an accident."

"First time for everything," Neal retorted darkly.

Peter ignored that. "Which means that your fear about my driving is an irrational fear. Otherwise known as a _phobia_. You know," he added solicitously, "there's treatment for phobias, now." His face brightened as he snapped his fingers. "You don't have to live with this. We could try to cure you—get you in to see someone."

"Ha!" Neal scoffed. "How's this: _I'll_ agree to see someone when _you_ agree to see one of those movies they used to show teenagers just learning to drive. You know, the ones filled with twisted cars and mangled corpses?"

Peter laughed, resisting a surprisingly strong—and undeniably juvenile—urge to gun the engine, just a little bit, to provoke his consultant. "FBI agents get driver training from professionals at Quantico. It's called the Tactical and Emergency Vehicle Operations Center, and I passed with flying colors."

"Which could be exactly the problem," Neal countered. "These are the streets of New York, not the course at the FBI Academy. In all the times I've been in the car with you, no one has been chasing us, or shooting at us, or trying to run us off the road. And yet you still drive as if someone _is_."

"_You _haven't driven in so long you've probably forgotten how," Peter told him, shaking his head sadly. "As a matter of fact—the last time you drove for any significant amount of time, wasn't the car, you know . . . stolen?"

"First of all, I admit nothing," Neal told him without missing a beat. "Second of all, I would expect an FBI agent to know the difference between joyriding and grand theft auto. In any case, I fail to see how it's relevant. But let's say, hypothetically_, _that you were right. It is a sad commentary on your driving that even behind the wheel of a stolen car, I'm pretty sure I would _still _be a better driver than you."

With difficulty, Peter smothered a smile. He was endlessly entertained by the effortless way Neal could not only dodge any accusation thrown at him, but then neatly fling it right back. Peter had done it on purpose, of course; he had to admit, if only to himself, that putting Neal through his paces never got old.

That bit of amusement over with, he backtracked.

"Let's get back to the original subject, Neal. You were taking a very . . . narrow view of my culinary tastes, and I was calling you on it."

Because Neal never enjoyed contemplating his own imminent death—and because he knew Peter would never let him win _any _argument about his driving—he allowed himself to be diverted. "Come on, Peter. Le Bernardin? They serve at least three different kinds of caviar there. And octopus. And every dish is infused with a . . . bergamot-basil emulsion or a yuzu vinaigrette, or something equally exotic."

"Bergamot and . . . _yuzu_, did you say?" Peter echoed tentatively.

"See! That's what I mean. And since you were wondering, bergamot and yuzu are both—"

"I wasn't wondering. They're both fruits, grown mostly in Italy and . . . Japan, if I remember correctly. And you might want to give me a little credit for once," Peter finished, shooting a subtle sidelong glance at Neal before returning his gaze to the road, looking inordinately pleased with himself.

Taken aback for once, Neal stared at him. "Touché. You actually _studied the ingredients on the menu_. How very . . . meticulous of you." Was_ meticulous _really the right word, though? Neal couldn't help wondering whether _insane _might be more fitting . . . .

"Well, bergamot, I already knew. Yuzu, and some of the others, I did have to look up," Peter admitted. Now he sounded a little self-conscious, as if belatedly realizing that he'd revealed too much.

Neal shook his head in amazement. Just when he thought he had Peter all figured out, the man would prove him wrong. It was a useful reminder, really, that Peter still had the capacity to surprise him. "I guess you don't need any palate education from me, then."

"Oh, I _always _appreciate your efforts to educate me, Neal."

"Well. Okay, then. Wouldn't want to become completely irrelevant," Neal said, pretending to look relieved.

"Yeah, I guess I'll keep you around," Peter said casually. Neal sent a wry smile Peter's way.

"Look, I know all about the menu there," he continued, unruffled. "Yes, I checked it out. Elizabeth is welcome to the caviar and the octopus, if she wants it. Me, I'll be perfectly content with duck, or lamb, or filet, or snapper. They serve those, too. It's not just off-the-wall stuff for culinary snobs."

"You do have to admit, though," Neal noted, scrutinizing him carefully, "that epicurean feasts aren't really your style."

A shrug was Peter's only response.

"Ah. Not your style. But they are Elizabeth's," Neal said after a little pause, the tiniest hint of admiration in his voice. "Definitely Elizabeth's. That's sweet." He thought for a moment. "And it's not even your anniversary. I'm familiar with the date, as you know."

That remark brought a small smile to Peter's face.

* * *

Neal knew the date of Peter and Elizabeth's anniversary like he knew the date of his own birthday. Very early on in their partnership, he and Peter had had another conversation in this very same car, dealing with that very subject. A conversation that had ended rather unpleasantly, after Neal had wondered out loud how Peter could be so clueless about his own wife.

_Oh, no, _Peter had retorted. _You don't get to lecture me on relationships. My wife didn't change her identity and flee the country to get away from me._

It had been obvious to Neal that Peter had regretted that cutting remark about Kate almost as soon as he'd said it—but he _had _said it.

_And it had hurt like hell._

That felt like a lifetime ago. Like he and Peter had been totally different people then, feeling each other out: how far they could probe, how much they could divulge. It was odd, Neal thought, that he should be remembering that moment now. Though it was memorable for one reason: it was the first time Peter had realized how badly he could hurt Neal—if he wanted to. And it had nothing to do with Peter's ever-present ability to lock Neal up; this was all about Peter discovering what could push Neal's emotional buttons and being able to use that knowledge to wound him. Except he didn't want to, because Peter wasn't that kind of person; in fact, he never had been.

That moment in the car had been Peter's unlooked-for discovery that he could hurt Neal. But in the months that followed, Neal had made a discovery of his own: Peter would never use what he'd learned. Not that it had been a discovery, really—it was more of a confirmation. Neal had made it a point over the years to learn more about his pursuer than just mere trivia like the date of his anniversary. No, Neal had studied Peter enough to have a pretty good idea of who he was and exactly what he was capable of. In the week that followed his recapture at Peter's hands in Kate's abandoned apartment, Neal had thought about more than just work-release precedents and tamper-proof electronic monitors. He'd thought—quite a bit—about the man who'd caught him and what it would be like to be under his supervision. If Peter had been some sort of double-dealing, power-hungry bullying martinet (in other words, what Mozzie would call _a typical fed_), Neal probably wouldn't have suggested their arrangement.

Or maybe that was crap. Maybe he would have done it anyway. Because being out of prison was always better than being in. And maybe the proof—Neal remembered, like it was yesterday—was his conversation with Mozzie at the end of Neal's very first day working with Peter. What was the first thing he'd asked his friend, after not seeing him for years? Neal's first question, his most important question—even before he'd asked about Kate—had been about the anklet.

_Can you pick it? _

Day One of his new FBI life not even over yet, and Neal was already laying the groundwork for escape.

No, if Neal were truthful with himself, he'd admit that he hadn't exactly planned on this arrangement being anything long-term. Few things in his life ever had been. His FBI deal had been an expedient means to an end: a way to get out of prison, to search for Kate and find her so they could both escape.

Somewhere along the way, that had changed, though. Of course, his dream of escaping with Kate had died when she did. Now, he was honest enough to admit that maybe it had never been realistic, anyway. Maybe it had been more of a fantasy than anything else.

But things had begun to shift even before Kate died. And that was mainly because of Peter. Peter, who knew him better than just about anyone ever had—and, paradoxically, trusted him anyway (not completely, of course; Peter was too smart for that). Peter, who knew how to hurt Neal but never would—at least not intentionally. Peter, who had facets Neal had not imagined, though he thought he'd known the man pretty well.

And if not for Peter at the airstrip, making Neal stop, making him _think_, Neal might have died along with Kate.

Peter was so conscious of Neal's sensibilities, in fact, that now that Kate was dead, Peter never mentioned her at all. Neal was pretty sure Peter worried that the very sound of her name would send him into some kind of fugue state.

Of course, Peter was wrong about that.

* * *

Peter kept his eyes on the road now, an air of diffidence creeping in. "It doesn't have to be our anniversary for us to . . ." his voice trailed off. He cleared his throat before resuming. "I wanted to do something nice for El. After . . . everything that's happened lately, I just want us to spend a little more time together, that's all. Do things that make her happy."

Neal knew that when Peter said _after everything that's happened lately, _he really meant _after Keller_. Elizabeth had been shaken by Peter's abduction—something Neal couldn't help but feel a bit guilty about. After all, Keller had only taken Peter as a means to manipulate Neal. And Peter felt guilty, too, that Elizabeth had had to worry about him—and would continue to worry because the slippery bastard had escaped.

Though Peter could also have meant, _after the Deckard case_, when he'd had to go on the run with a fugitive FBI agent to catch a corrupt marshal (ruining yet another date night with Elizabeth). Or _after the Novice case, _when, in the course of investigating corporate espionage, Peter had been accidentally poisoned and had spent the night in the hospital.

Yes, it had been a tough few months to be Peter Burke's wife. It was just like him to try to make up for that in whatever way he could. Buying Elizabeth an expensive dinner was conventional, but it was also very . . . Peter. And Peter was right: it would make Elizabeth happy. Not because she was a food snob, either. She enjoyed frou-frou cuisine well enough—and her job demanded that she be an expert on it—but Elizabeth was perfectly content with the pizza and beer that her husband preferred. No, what would make her happy would be knowing how hard Peter had tried to please her. _That_ would mean everything.

Frankly, Neal was still trying to wrap his head around the notion that Peter had not merely _read_ the Le Bernardin menu—oh, no. No, Peter had _obsessed_ over it—to the point of actually analyzing the intricacies of each dish's preparation and poring over obscure foodstuffs on Google before going to eat there. That was really going above and beyond.

And yet, the more Neal thought about it, the more sense it made—albeit in a scary kind of way. Why had he even been surprised? Peter Burke was a man who'd taken the time to create an exhaustive file on his own wife, diligently collecting everything from her EBay bids to her credit card bills to her video rentals, in his quest to determine the perfect anniversary gift. Of course Peter Burke, Mr. Detail Oriented, would prepare for a special evening out with his wife with the same assiduous, single-minded focus he'd use when planning an FBI sting.

Neal couldn't help but wonder whether his comment to Peter during that early conversation was partially to blame for this. He'd asked what made Elizabeth feel alive and hadn't bothered to hide his disbelief when Peter had no answer. That had stung Peter, who'd responded with that biting comment about Kate (the one he'd so clearly regretted as soon as the words were out of his mouth). And presumably that had been the impetus for Peter, confronted with the unpleasant realization that he'd been ignoring his own wife, to redouble his efforts where Elizabeth was concerned.

Which apparently now had led, many months later, to Peter doing everything short of memorizing the menu at one of New York's top restaurants—just because he was _that _devoted to his wife.

"Researching the dishes at Le Bernardin, Peter? Studying up on yuzu? That's really going the extra mile," Neal teased. "Wait 'til Elizabeth finds out."

Peter's answer was quick. "She doesn't need to know that part."

"Oh, I beg to differ," Neal told him. "She absolutely needs to know that part. Because, come on—that's the _best_ part."

"Now you're mocking me," Peter grumbled.

Neal looked dismayed. "Would _I_ do that?" Peter glared at him until he added, "Okay, I _would_, but I'm not. Not . . . right now. Because you are just too charming for words."

Peter rolled his eyes.

Neal made a mental note to casually slip this detail into the conversation the next time he saw Elizabeth. Peter being Peter, he probably wouldn't say anything about it in a million years. But somebody ought to tell Elizabeth that her husband was so dedicated, he'd looked up yuzu (and probably fifty other oddball items, as well) just for her.

What was the old saying? _It's the little things that count._

_TBC…_

…_.._

_A/N Some wonderful reviewers of my last fic, "Break Everything," kindly said they'd be happy to read more of that story which (let's face it) was little more than Peter and Neal sitting around talking. I swear this story will not be that (though you'd never know it by reading this first part), but I am trying to keep the chapters to manageable lengths for the moment. This story *will* be more than just Peter and Neal chatting, I promise._


	2. When Bad Things Happen

**Critical Hour **

**Chapter 2 – When Bad Things Happen**

"_**Things never go wrong at the moment you expect them to. When you're completely relaxed, oblivious to any potential dangers, that's when bad things happen."  
**_― C.K. Kelly Martin, _I Know It's Over_

* * *

Neal had gone quiet. Once again slowed down by traffic, Peter cast about for something to harass _him_ about—two could play that game, after all. As he sneaked a quick glance at Neal (playing with his phone _again_), Peter let his mind run free, stream-of-consciousness style. He had a sudden realization, and it had to do with Neal's hat. Or, more specifically, the lackof Neal's hat. He wasn't wearing one today, and that was unusual.

Peter wondered if that had some hidden meaning, or if Neal had just forgotten to put it on, or was having it cleaned, or something. Did dry cleaners clean hats? Peter had never known anyone who'd worn one before, so he had no idea. He assumed the answer was yes. Privately, Peter thought it was kind of a pointless accessory. Hats had no real purpose except to make the wearer stand out in a crowd—which, of course, was exactly why Neal favored them. So, did his _not_ wearing one today indicate something deeper about Neal's psyche? Maybe this signaled some sort of existential crossroads. Not that Peter would normally have time for any kind of hat-related crisis, but at the moment he had nothing better to do than give Neal a hard time.

"So, Neal, is everything okay?"

That got his CI's attention; he looked up sharply from his phone and eyed Peter. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Oh, no reason. Just an _innocent_ question," Peter said, repeating the word Neal had used.

Neal noticed, responding by tilting his head and giving Peter a _look. _"Innocent, huh? Everything's fine. I mean, it'd be better if I didn't fear for my life," Neal gestured out toward the traffic, "but—"

Peter didn't let him finish. "It's just that, well, I noticed something's missing."

"Missing?" Neal sounded like he always did when he couldn't tell what Peter was getting at: wary.

"From your ensemble," Peter continued.

The look on Neal's face had ramped up from wary to suspicious. "My . . . ensemble?"

Peter really thought Neal would have caught on by now. "Your hat."

"My hat," Neal repeated blankly.

"Usually you're better at this," Peter said, voice shading into mock concern.

Neal was now staring at Peter with a look that clearly said he thought the agent had lost his mind. "Better at what?"

"You know, witty conversation. If you're just going to repeat everything I say, it takes all the fun out of it."

Neal sighed. He was about to answer when the moment was rudely interrupted by Peter slamming on the brakes, causing Neal to be jerked forward against his seat belt. Neal closed his mouth, but aimed an accusing glare at Peter that spoke volumes.

"That was him, he pulled out in front of me," Peter said defensively, gesturing to the truck that was now ahead of them.

Neal shook his head. "I can't blame him. He thought he was pulling out onto a New York street. How was he to know that it was actually a Formula One course?"

Peter just laughed it off; he really was in a good mood today.

Turning slightly, Neal looked at Peter instead of the road. That way, it was easier to pretend that Peter wasn't risking both their lives in some misguided attempt to shave a few minutes off their travel time. It wasn't like they had an appointment, after all.

Neal decided to point that out. In his most logical voice, he said, "Is there some reason that you're hurrying? Some reason, one you haven't deigned to share with me, why it's so critical that we get there maybe two minutes before we would have otherwise—say, if you _weren't_ driving like you were auditioning to be a stunt driver in _Ronin_?"

"Ah, great movie," Peter said, smiling. "Some amazing car chases."

"Yeah, but there's no need to re-enact them here, is there?" Neal said pointedly, drumming his fingers restlessly on the passenger side door.

"You're exaggerating. I mean, look around. I'm not even driving against traffic."

"Thank God for small mercies," Neal muttered, slouching down a little in the seat. He sat in silence for the next few minutes and went back to fiddling with his phone, until finally, Peter pulled over, put the car in park, and announced, "Look, we made it here alive. Let's go; we've got a warehouse to search."

"Yay—on the arriving alive part, anyway," Neal said. His voice was suffused with fake enthusiasm, but his smile (he was careful to wait until Peter was getting out of the car and unable to see it) was genuine. Neal couldn't deny that he did enjoy tweaking Peter about his driving. It was a never-ending source of entertainment for him when they were in the car. And since Peter refused to let Neal listen to what he wanted on the radio, bickering was just about the _only _source of entertainment available.

Neal unbuckled his seat belt, stepped out of the car, and looked doubtfully up at the hulking, windowless building that took up most of the adjacent block. Peter had parked a ways away, just in case. "So that's it?"

Peter nodded as he joined Neal on the cracked, uneven sidewalk, carefully sidestepping a hole large enough to swallow any unwary pedestrian. "That's it."

"We have to search that ourselves?" Neal let out a long, elaborate exhale. "Please don't tell me we have to search that ourselves."

"Yes. That's what the warrant is for," Peter said, waving the paper at him.

"Right, but doesn't the bureau have, you know, _people_ for this kind of job?"

"Sure," Peter answered. "Us." At Neal's sigh, he added, "We're gonna take a preliminary look around, at least. And as someone recently said, _don't take this the wrong way,_ but it almost seems like you don't want to be here."

"Now _you're _exaggerating. Where else would I rather be?" Neal asked. He pasted on a cheery smile, just for good measure.

Peter smiled back. "That's what I like to hear." He pointed. "Door's around back."

Together they started walking in the direction Peter had indicated, along a street that was deserted. They reached the corner of the building and turned to follow the wall around to the rear.

"You never finished telling me about your hat."

"Hmm, that's right, I didn't. You really don't miss a trick, do you?" Neal replied in a voice laced with fake admiration. "I think I'll just keep that to myself."

He was pleased to see that his response had caught Peter off guard.

"And . . . why would you do that?"

"Because it's all part of my plan, you see."

"Your plan." Peter was nonplussed.

"Yes, my brilliantly devious, utterly nefarious plan." Neal informed him, capping it off with a theatrically villainous cackle.

Peter pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You really don't do evil well."

Neal shrugged. "You only say that because you've never really seen me do evil."

"That wasn't it?"

"Definitely not it." Neal gave a very pronounced head shake.

Peter pondered that one as they walked, now along the wall of the warehouse. Even during his four years of chasing Neal—which had included various stunts that could be viewed as Neal taunting his pursuers—Peter had never thought of his quarry that way. Neal had broken the law, yes, but he'd never been violent, never even come close to threatening anyone physically. He'd been a criminal who deserved to be punished, absolutely—Peter had _never _subscribed to the idea that crimes were minor, or victimless, just because the marks were rich or happened to have insurance. But Neal had never been, in Peter's mind, a serious "bad guy," either. Not in _that way. _And now . . . since then, he'd seen Neal put on all kinds of personas, but nothing truly malevolent.

_Well, except for that time Neal almost killed someone, _a little voice in Peter's head reminded him. No persona there, either; that had been all too real. The sight of Neal aiming that gun at Fowler, after he'd already pulled the trigger once, was a memory that could still give Peter nightmares if he thought about it too much. Which was why he tried very hard not to.

And yet, even that . . . as horrible as that act had been, as completely indefensible as it had been—Peter had a hard time thinking of it as truly evil (at least as Peter defined the word). That day, Neal had been more unhinged than evil.

If you bought that argument—Peter knew very well that lots of people wouldn't—then Neal was right.

"So," Peter said, resuming, "this plan of yours. This devious plan."

"Don't forget 'nefarious,'" Neal supplied helpfully.

"Right. Devious and nefarious," Peter corrected. "You want to share?"

"No, because that's part of the plan," Neal explained. "To keep you guessing. Wondering, _what is Neal up to? What is he thinking? What's he got under his hat? Or in this case, not under his hat?" _

Peter looked at him doubtfully. "_That's _part of the plan? What kind of plan is that?"

Neal flashed him a brilliant smile. "If I told you, it would ruin all the fun. That's your favorite part, isn't it? Figuring things out. I'd hate to deprive you."

Peter groaned and took off his sunglasses, tucking them into a pocket. "Why do I keep you around, again?"

"Oh, because I come in handy every now and then," Neal remarked absently, frowning as he contemplated the size of the building whose perimeter they were skirting. "And don't blame me—you're the one who brought up my hat."

"Speaking of coming in handy," Peter said, returning to the matter at hand, "I hope you've got your lock picks, because we're gonna need'em to get in."

"I always have my picks, Peter," Neal said reprovingly, but his expression brightened in spite of himself. Things were looking up. He was going to get to show off—right in front of Peter, which was his absolute favorite way of showing off. Because then they'd get to play that game where Neal shamelessly flaunted his skills and Peter studiously pretended not to be impressed (because as an FBI agent, he was reluctant to appear to be condoning the illegal talents of a criminal).

_Not that his oh-so-righteous reluctance would stop Peter from _using_ said talents whenever it suited him . . . . _

Granted, the whole thing would be more fun if it weren't legally sanctioned, but you couldn't have everything. Thinking about it, Neal quickened his stride as he led the way to the warehouse's back door.

Following close behind him, where Neal couldn't see his face, Peter smiled wider. _Another thing about Neal that was utterly predictable._

…...

And here was yet a third thing about Neal that was utterly predictable: that in the course of searching the warehouse, Neal would wander off, forcing Peter not only to look for the missing art, but also, now, to hunt for his missing consultant.

When they'd reached the back entrance of the warehouse, Neal had made ridiculously short work of what appeared to be two state-of-the-art, high-end door locks, while Peter looked on in silent appreciation. Peter could jimmy a lock, too, when he had to, thanks to Mozzie's recent tutelage. But Neal took it to a whole different level, with a speed and fluidity that turned the act into something approaching an art form. Of course, you only got that good via years of practice, and virtually none of that practice had been legal, Peter was sure. Still, there was no denying—though Peter would never say it out loud—Neal's lock-picking skills were nonpareil.

And so, Peter was reminded, moments later, were his disappearing skills. One minute, Neal had been there, at Peter's shoulder making smart-aleck comments about hopeless searches; the next minute he was gone, off to conduct his own personal search, presumably.

And now Peter had no idea where he was.

"Neal?" he called softly in the quiet of the deserted warehouse.

No answer.

Peter momentarily halted his methodical examination of yet another row of boxes, frowning as he listened intently. Was that a noise? It had sounded like . . . something. A soft noise, somewhere off in the distance. Or had he imagined it?

Very possibly he had imagined it. Though, truth to tell, he wasn't usually the imagining type.

_Where had Neal gone? What was he doing?_

"Neal! Where are you?" Frustration made his voice come out harsher than he'd meant it to.

No, not quite. If he was honest with himself, it wasn't only frustration he was feeling.

It was a nagging, inexplicable sense of worry.

Peter checked his watch and frowned. For all of Neal's grousing, the warehouse wasn't _that_ big—surely he couldn't have gone far. It _was_ big enough, though, that they'd need more people to really examine it thoroughly; Neal had actually been right about that. Once he tracked down Neal, he'd have to call the office and get a team down here.

But Peter intended to find Neal first. Because wherever he was, whatever he was doing, Neal had been gone just a little too long for Peter's comfort.

A boiler kicked on, somewhere in the distance, and Peter jumped involuntarily at the sound. A section of fluorescent lights high above him flickered, momentarily darkening the area where he stood, before the lights returned to full power.

He idly ran through some scenarios as he walked. Perhaps a crate had fallen on Neal and he was incapacitated. _No_, Peter thought, _I would have heard that. _Or maybe he'd gotten stuck trying to crawl behind one of them? . . . unlikely, but Peter hoped that was it; he would never let Neal live that down.

_More likely, he found something fascinating, zoned out, and lost all track of time,_ Peter thought with a sigh. _Or he's bored and playing with his phone again . . . ._

The warehouse layout wasn't complicated. Near the entrance, they'd passed a couple of doors that led to offices maybe, or just additional storage-_more locks for Neal to pick, later. _But the bulk of the warehouse space was lined with row after row of floor-to-ceiling shelves, most of them loaded with crates and boxes, and so tall you'd need a forklift to reach the very topmost ones. The height precluded any visibility beyond the aisle you were in—and helped contribute to the general dimness of the place, as did the weak fluorescent lights. Peter reached the end of the row, where the high shelves stacked with crates ended, and took a few steps so he could scan the next one.

Nothing.

He kept walking, quicker now as his prickling sense of unease grew, and glanced down the next row. Peter hoped he'd see his consultant engrossed in some discovery—and was already preparing the mini-lecture he'd deliver to Neal for not answering him.

But he saw nothing, except an empty aisle lined with more shelves and more crates. No Neal.

_Where the hell was he?_

"_Neal!_" He called out again, louder this time.

No answer. No sound except a low hum from the ventilation system.

Something was not right.

It had been too long; Neal ought to be answering him.

Peter felt the hair rise on the back of his neck—along with that familiar feeling in his gut that he'd learned over the years to trust without hesitation. Without conscious thought, he reached for his weapon and slid it quietly out of the shoulder holster. He continued walking, heading down to the next aisle.

Maybe he should call Neal's phone—

_Shit. There he is._

The warehouse hadn't been deserted, after all.

Peter cursed at himself. _Stupid, stupid. _ He should have realized that their thief might be here, at the warehouse. He should have brought backup (_but it was just a routine search warrant_, his practical inner voice said). Above all, he shouldn't have let Neal wander around on his own. Left to his own devices, Neal always seemed, unerringly, to find trouble—or to have trouble find him. And no one knew that better than Peter.

But because he'd had been foolish, because he had let Neal out of his sight for what had seemed like a grand total of maybe twenty-five seconds, now Regal, _the associate museum curator, of all people, _had Neal in a death grip, arm wrapped around his neck and a gun pointed at his head.

_TBC …._

* * *

_Many thanks to all who reviewed the first chapter - always great to hear what you liked/didn't like. More coming soon...  
_


	3. All You Have to Do

**Chapter 3 – All You Have to Do**

"_**If you want to control someone, all you have to do is to make them feel afraid."**_

― Paulo Coelho

…_**...**_

Jameson Regal, the man holding Neal at gunpoint, looked every inch the epitome of the suave criminal—almost a cliché, really. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored suit that was dark, European, and expensive. His black hair was slicked back, perfectly coiffed, and his dark eyes sparkled with amusement in a strong-featured, olive-skinned face marked with a shadowing of fashionable stubble.

_Almost Neal's doppelganger, _Peter couldn't help thinking.

_Except for a smile that could only be described as alarming. _

_And the gun, of course._

"You must be Agent Burke," Regal said pleasantly, his lilting British accent echoing in the stillness. "Did you lose something? I believe I've found it. Stay where you are, please."

_I didn't identify myself; how the hell does he know who I am? _

Then Peter remembered: he and Neal had interviewed some museum employees after the thefts had been discovered. _Regal hadn't been among them, though . . . ._

_And where had he come from? _Despite his initial instinct to blame himself for missing something, the truth was that they hadn't come in here blind; Peter was too cautious for that. While they were waiting on the warrant, he'd assigned a surveillance team to keep an eye on the place for the past couple of days, just in case—probies, but agents nonetheless. They'd confirmed that there had been no activity—and they'd left just before he and Neal arrived.

_They'd missed something. Obviously._

As Regal had demanded, Peter stopped, with his weapon held rock-steady in the familiar double-handed grip. He aimed at Regal, but with Neal directly in the line of fire, Peter had no real shot to take even if the man hadn't been armed—with what looked like a shiny new Glock 19 (_same make as mine_, Peter noted automatically). Regal looked all too comfortable holding it, too—and not at all concerned by Peter's presence.

_Dammit._

Neal was perhaps twenty feet away. Too far to reach, but plenty close enough for Peter, scanning worriedly, to see the beginnings of a darkening bruise near his eye, an ugly gash on his temple, and the blood running down the side of his face. The collar of his shirt was splashed red with it. His hands were behind his back, probably restrained somehow.

Neal looked dazed; though his eyes were open and he was looking in Peter's general direction, Neal had shown no indication of recognizing him. He was standing, but Peter feared it was more Regal holding him up than Neal staying upright under his own power.

_Maybe he could use that. If he could signal Neal, somehow, to drop, to get out of the way . . . ._

'Well, isn't this just fascinating!" Regal exclaimed, delight plain in his voice.

"You know who I am, then you know I'm FBI. Put the gun down, Regal."

The man chuckled. "Are we following the classic script, then? I'm quite happy to play along. That means_ I_ must say, 'Put _your _weapon down, or I'll kill him.' I believe that's my line?"

Peter shook his head curtly, his firm voice betraying none of the fear that gripped him. "You're not getting out of here. Lower the weapon and let him go."

Regal's voice turned dark and deadly. "Did you miss the part where I said I'd kill him?"

Peter's finger tightened reflexively on the trigger. Regal didn't miss the movement; he followed it with his eyes before returning his tranquil gaze to Peter's face.

"There's no need for that," Peter said, trying to inject some sanity into a situation that was rapidly spiraling out of control. "We can—"

"I understand," Regal said, cutting him off, tone once again conversational and light, "that the FBI is an incredibly bureaucratic organization. You spend an inordinate amount of time completing tedious paperwork, don't you?"

Peter didn't move, or bother to answer. He wasn't going to play Regal's game—whatever it was.

"I said, '_Don't. You.'" _Regal dug the barrel of the gun into Neal's right temple, for emphasis, once as he said each word. Neal's head jerked involuntarily to the left with the impact. He didn't wince, or make a sound, but Peter thought he saw him blink twice, rapidly, and the muscles around his mouth tighten.

"What the hell do you want, Regal? Yes, I do paperwork. I'm really looking forward to filling it out when we're processing _you_."

Regal grinned. "Oh, we're an awfully long way from that. I was thinking of something else."

He paused, his smile growing wider and feral. "I can't even imagine the sheer quantity of paperwork an agent would have to complete if he allowed his consultant's head to get blown off."

Peter waited, a mixture of cold fury and fear flowing through his veins. White collar criminals were rarely violent or vicious, but Jameson Regal was quickly proving to be much more of a sadist than the offenders Peter was used to.

Keeping his face impassive, Peter fought not to show any sign of the disturbing images flashing unbidden through his mind of Neal, lying on the warehouse floor in a pool of blood. Regal was clearly eager to provoke a reaction; Peter was just as determined not to give him one.

What he couldn't control was the racing of his heart; it was pounding double-time in his chest, so loud he thought Regal might actually be able to hear it.

_And he knows who Neal is, too . . . ._

"Again, there's no need for that. Not when I can offer you an alternative," Peter said carefully.

At this point, he really didn't care if Regal made off with an entire warehouse full of stolen art. Having spent a decent portion of his career tracking down stolen paintings and such, Peter was well aware of their intrinsic worth. He knew that people talked about art, often, as _priceless_, and by the strict definition of the word, such usage was accurate; he'd used it himself, even. But when compared to something of real value, _incalculable_ value—namely, Neal's life—the most allegedly _priceless _art in the world was just so much colored paper and clay to Peter.

So, yeah, right now, he didn't give a shit if Regal had every painting from the goddamned Gardner heist hidden away in here somewhere.

He tried again. "You're a smart man, Regal, I can see that."

Regal shot him a warning look. "Don't patronize me, Agent Burke."

"You need to think about the ways this can end," Peter replied, confident and calm. "How you can get what you want. I think that there's a deal to be made here."

"Really?" Regal asked. "Please continue."

_The Bureau doesn't negotiate with kidnappers,_ a traitorous voice in Peter's head whispered. He took a deep breath and then spoke.

"You put down the gun. So do I. You let him go, I let _you_ go. You can even take the art."

Regal looked mildly incredulous and let the moment drag out before finally answering. "That's it? That's the best you can come up with?"

"It beats you being led away in cuffs," Peter countered. An instant later, he realized he'd been parroting Neal's words, from right after they'd arrested Deckard.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Regal said in a voice thick with exasperation. "Let's be serious, shall we? Really, I expected more from you than that. _I'm_ not going to be led away in cuffs, because I hold all the cards here. Or, at least, the only card that matters." He glanced down at Neal before refocusing on Peter.

"And you need to understand something, Agent Burke," Regal continued, his tone all steel once again. "_I don't bluff._"

"You need to understand that you'd be facing a murder charge. If you ever make it to court, that is," Peter shot back.

"'A murder charge,'" Regal repeated. He actually sounded pleased. "Well, at least you're acknowledging that I won't hesitate to kill him. I suppose that's progress. Of a sort."

"You kill him, I kill you," Peter said coolly, as if that were in any way an acceptable outcome. "Unless you're prepared to die, you need to put the gun down now."

"Are you prepared to let _him_ die?" Regal inquired. "Because if not, you're the one who needs to put down the weapon, Agent Burke."

Neal surprised him, then. Peter had decided that his CI was probably not tracking what was going on, but he'd been wrong. "Peter, don't," he said hoarsely. "Don't—"

Regal moved the gun down to Neal's ear and shoved it in. Neal stopped talking abruptly, flinching away as he choked back a cry.

"Quiet, Neal," Regal told him coldly, eyes flicking down at him for a second before his gaze returned to Peter's face. "Speak only when you're spoken to. Do you understand?"

Again he rammed the gun into the side of Neal's head, forcing the younger man to struggle to stay upright. Peter felt his gut twist at seeing Neal in pain, but part of him wished Neal would collapse. It might distract Regal momentarily; it might give Peter the opening to fire that he craved so much it hurt . . . .

"Do you understand, Neal?" Regal repeated. He sounded like some sick parody of a loving parent admonishing a stubborn offspring—patient, but with an unmistakable undercurrent of menace.

"Yes," Neal whispered, finally. His voice was full of pain and uncertainty, almost like a child's.

Seeing Neal in this state was harrowing enough, but hearing him was almost worse, somehow. It shook Peter, a little, to hear how lost and un-Neal-like he sounded.

Regal looked once more at Peter. "I _will_ shoot him, Agent Burke. Just imagine the nightmares you'll have. We both know that will destroy you, no matter what manner of vengeance you wreak on me afterwards. Which is why you're going to place your weapon on the ground. Now."

He had moved the barrel of the gun back to press against the side of Neal's head, tapping it there thoughtfully as Neal grimaced, trying not to flinch. A moment later, his eyes slipped shut again; Peter wondered if Neal was fully conscious.

Peter's mind raced. _If you surrender your weapon, you're at his mercy._

His brain played devil's advocate: _If you don't surrender your weapon, he might shoot Neal right now._

_No, he won't._

_You don't know that. You can't be certain of what he will or won't do. _

When you'd spent time on the job, you developed an ability to read people—to make snap judgments that weren't guesses, but were based on experience. Most cops could. Neal could do it, too; he'd spent sufficient time conning people to cultivate the same skill. Peter had seen enough criminals over the years to gauge quickly and accurately how serious they were. To focus on not just _what_ they said, but _how_ they said it, their facial expressions, the amount of eye contact they made. When it came to criminals waving guns around, many times the weapon was an accessory they thought they were _supposed _to have, but in reality something they weren't prepared to use. For those types of amateurs, the right kind of psychological pressure, especially an emphasis on the consequences of pulling the trigger, could disarm them more effectively than any physical attack could.

Regal did not strike Peter as being in the _amateur _category, though. Not by a long shot. All of Peter's instincts—the same ones that had made him certain that Neal had never posed a physical threat—now told him that Regal most definitely did.

He weighed his options. They were damnably few—and the risks too great. Neal was in no way able to help him. And with every second that passed, Peter was more sure that Regal was not the bluffing type.

Even if he was, there was no way Peter could take that chance.

"Tick tock, Agent Burke," Regal said cheerfully. "I'm afraid time's running out for Neal." He moved the gun down to press against Neal's jaw.

Peter watched and came to a decision.

He had no choice, really.

Slowly, with a growing sense of dread, Peter brought his left hand away from the gun and moved his right hand out to the side, away from his body, pointing the weapon at the ground.

"A sensible man, then," Regal said approvingly. "I believe it was the Roman orator Quintilian who said, '_When defeat is inevitable, it is wisest to yield.'_ I commend you on being able to recognize defeat."

_Great, _Peter thought, heart pounding, almost painfully, in his chest. _An erudite criminal._

"Drop the weapon on the floor and kick it over here. Oh, and I'll need your backup and cell phone. Slowly."

Peter complied. As he pulled out his phone and slid it across the floor toward Regal, he said, "I don't carry a backup."

"Really?" Regal asked, voice silky and dangerous and disbelieving. He began to carefully, deliberately caress Neal's face with the barrel of the Glock. "You wouldn't be lying to me, would you, Agent Burke?"

"No," Peter said quickly, watching the gun in Regal's hand, unwillingly transfixed as he moved it down to thrust it into the soft skin under Neal's chin, hard enough to force his head back. Neal let out an involuntary gasp and closed his eyes, just for a second, before blinking them open again.

Peter tensed automatically at the sight and added, aware of the near-panic in his own voice, "I'm telling you the truth, Regal. White collar agents don't carry backup weapons. You know, nonviolent offenders?"

"Ah," Regal replied, nodding. He'd heard the note in Peter's voice, too, and was clearly relishing it. "So perhaps this is a lesson learned, then?" A smug smile blossomed on his face.

Peter just glared at him.

"Raise your hands, Agent Burke. Very slowly." Regal waited until Peter had complied and then added, "Now place them behind your head. And don't move unless you're told to do so."

Peter obeyed and stood there, waiting apprehensively for whatever was coming. His pulse was pounding painfully in his temples.

Quick as lightning, Regal moved the gun out from under Neal's chin, only to smash it brutally into the back of his head, shoving Neal off to the side as he did so. Neal went limp from the blow, out cold even before he crumpled soundlessly to the floor, hitting it hard. Peter watched with wordless concern, then shifted back to stare daggers at Regal, who now had his weapon trained on the agent.

"Awake, Neal?" Regal asked, faux-solicitous, never taking his eyes off Peter. He prodded Neal's body delicately with a foot, then kicked him sharply; Neal remained frighteningly motionless. "No? Just as well; he looks a bit peaked. Probably could use a nap, anyway. Perhaps we can spend some quality time together later. In the meantime, I can devote my full attention to you, Agent Burke."

He looked coldly at Peter. "Cuff yourself."

Peter hesitated and Regal tsk'd. "Unless you'd prefer I use some more permanent method of making sure you don't follow us."

Peter reached around, slowly, to the small of his back and took out his handcuffs. The click as he closed the restraint around his left wrist was loud in the quiet. A moment later they both started at the noise when the boiler kicked on again, but Regal's gun never wavered. Peter stopped for a moment, then began to angle the cuff toward his other wrist.

"Oh, no, no," Regal said, as he smiled malevolently at Peter. "It's not going to be quite that easy. Leave your other wrist free—keep your hands in front—and take one step toward me. Slowly."

Peter took one step and waited.

"Now another."

Peter took a second step, having a bizarre flashback to childhood games of _Mother, May I?_ He gritted his teeth at Regal's obvious enjoyment at being able to control Peter's every move.

"One more," Regal said. Then, chuckling as Peter once again complied, "Excellent. You're being so very _obedient, _Agent Burke. One more step."

Walking forward, Peter focused on the gun Regal kept pointed at his chest. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to rush the man, to make a grab for the weapon, but he knew he'd never make it. It would be suicide. There was nothing he could do for Neal if he got himself killed now.

_Not that you're going to be of much help once you're restrained._

"Take one step to the left and stop," Regal commanded. Peter obeyed. He had no choice.

"You're going to attach yourself to those," Regal said, angling his head toward the shelves that stood to Peter's immediate left.

Peter did as he was ordered, raising his left wrist, cuff dangling from it. He turned slightly to thread the chain of the cuffs around the vertical support of the shelves next to him.

"Not there. Up further, Agent Burke."

Peter reached up higher, cursing mentally. He knew all too well what being restrained in this particular position was going to mean for his hopes of escape.

Regal's voice turned impatient. "You will cuff yourself up as high as you can manage. Reach up to the next shelf. Unless you want me to shoot you in the head right now and save myself a great deal of trouble. You have very few choices left, but that's one I'll permit you to make."

Reaching up, Peter wrapped the chain around the pole, high above his head, just above the second-highest shelf, so that the chain rested there. It was as far as he could reach. He reached up with his other arm, on the opposite side of the shelf support, and closed the cuff around his right wrist. _It would be impossible to pick these now. And the shelves looked sturdy._ He was standing almost on tiptoes, shoulders and arms stretched taut. This position was quickly going to progress from awkward, to painful, to agonizing, though that was the least of his problems right now.

No, the much bigger problem was that he was completely helpless and, as a result, he'd left his unconscious partner vulnerable to the not-so-tender mercies of a potential psychopath.

Peter took a deep breath and twisted his head to the right, looking around his raised right arm. He stared at Regal with a calm he did not feel.

With Peter securely shackled, Regal seemed to relax a bit. He lowered his own gun. Then he bent to scoop up the cell and Peter's weapon. He pocketed the phone and set himself to examining Peter's Glock. After a few seconds, he ejected the cartridge and tossed it and the gun off in the distance, high arcing throws in different directions that landed unseen. "Nice piece, but traceable," he said, almost to himself. When those tasks were completed, he once again surveyed Peter, looking him up and down, satisfied.

"Can't have you roaming about, but you do look dreadfully uncomfortable. So sorry about that," Regal said, sounding anything but.

Peter tried to focus on formulating a plan, on something other than his own impotence and his blinding anger at himself for letting this bastard—this goddamned _curator_—get the drop on them.

He needed whatever information he could get—and to play for time. "How did you get in here?"

"Via an entrance your agents were unaware of. You had an observation team, yes? Hard to be unobtrusive in this neighborhood. Apparently they didn't realize that the underground storage here can be accessed through the adjacent building. A very unfortunate mistake."

"And you knew we were coming?"

"No. That our paths happened to cross today was pure serendipity. Sometimes one just gets get lucky," Regal said, beaming. "Lucky for _me_, of course. For you, not so much."

"So what's your real name?" Peter asked. This man was more than just a member of the museum's curatorial staff; that much was obvious. Peter didn't expect him to answer the question, but right now his primary goal was to keep Regal talking for as long as possible. Every second he spent talking, was another second that he wasn't shooting Peter. Or going after Neal.

"Ah. You're on to me, then," Regal replied. "Pity you didn't figure that out before now."

Peter silently agreed. They'd assumed the thefts were an inside job. Museum heists usually were, Neal had remarked, with a gleam in his eye that made Peter wonder resignedly just how many such thefts Neal had masterminded before being arrested. Of course, protocol dictated that Peter wasn't supposed to wonder too much about such things, now that Neal was on their side.

They'd been on the right track, then, but it had been too soon for Regal to be any more of a suspect than anyone else who worked there. Which had helped lead to this debacle . . . .

"If I told you my identity, that would take all the fun out of it," Regal teased. "A little mystery keeps things exciting, don't you think, Agent Burke?"

"Oh, I've always thought excitement is overrated. Look, Regal," Peter said, keeping his voice even, hoping to appeal to the man's rational side. _Assuming he had one. _ "Neither of us is a threat to you now. The art is here, I assume—or somewhere nearby. If you leave with it now, you're free and clear. You might even have a chance to get away for good."

"Hmm," Regal said. "I suppose you have a point."

Peter pressed on, feeling faintly encouraged and yet uneasy at the same time. "You can take your masterpiece and go."

"I could," Regal agreed. "Except . . . ." He looked up and Peter could see the man considering, calculating.

"Yes, I do believe you're right, Agent Burke," Regal said thoughtfully. "Sound advice. Except for one small point. I think the correct term is 'master_pieces_.' Plural."

He took a long, deliberate look down at Neal, studying him where he lay in a twisted heap, still motionless at Regal's feet. Then he looked up at Peter again, with a mocking smile on his face, and winked.

Peter felt his blood run cold.

_TBC…._


	4. Into the Darkness

**Critical Hour**

**Chapter 4 – Into the Darkness**

"_**Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely."**_**  
**― Edna St. Vincent Millay

….

As Regal smiled that malignant smile, the man's earlier, chilling words echoed in Peter's head.

_Unless you'd prefer I use some more permanent method of making sure you don't follow us._

Peter hadn't missed Regal's choice of pronouns. He'd sincerely hoped that "us" referred to Regal and his criminal associates—whoever they were—but he'd had a sinking feeling that Regal had something else in mind.

Now, there was no doubt: Regal's latest statement confirmed it.

"_I think the correct term is 'masterpieces.' Plural." _

"What, you mean Caffrey?" Peter scoffed, feigning wry amusement and laughing bitterly. "Way more trouble than he's worth. Take it from one who knows."

"Oh, I'm sure he's trouble," Regal agreed. "But not worth it? Hardly. I know a bit about his skills, and I can think of all sorts of creative ways for Neal to prove his worth to me." He paused and grinned wolfishly at Peter. "Clever young things like him—well, one can always find a use for them."

"Except you can't trust him," Peter shot back, proud of how malicious he sounded. He could feel himself starting to sweat.

Regal nodded. "I don't doubt it. But that's hardly a deal breaker from my perspective. And speaking of that, there's one other item we need to discuss: the key to unlock Neal's electronic monitor. You do have it in your possession?"

Peter didn't react. _How does he know about that? He knows me, he knows Neal. How the hell does he know all of this?_

"Of course, if you _don't _have it, I could always just shoot the anklet off," Regal said. He shrugged and looked down, aiming the gun, almost lazily, at Neal's leg. "Trifle messy, though."

Fresh anxiety flooded through Peter, but his voice was steady as he said, "The U.S. Marshals hold those keys."

Regal glanced over at him, a shrewd look in his eyes. "I imagine they do, but that's not really an answer to my question, is it?"

"I don't have it."

Lowering his weapon, Regal stared at Peter appraisingly. "Surely you don't require the United States Marshals every time you want to release your pet from his leash? That seems rather . . . inefficient."

Peter's pulse sped up as a tiny voice inside his head asked, _Do you really want to do this?_

Of course he _wanted _to. To protect Neal. The question was whether he could pull it off. Whether he should even try. The key was right there, in his pants pocket. It would be the easiest thing in the world for Regal to find, if he decided to look.

Regal pursed his lips, as if thinking, and then said, in a casual tone, "Perhaps I overestimated your intelligence, earlier. Fortunately for you, I'm in a generous mood, so I'm going to dispense with the subtlety and give you one final chance to re-evaluate your reply. Right now, your primary use to me is as a source of information, which means that I demand complete honesty. If I don't get it, the consequences will be significant."

Peter remained silent, trying desperately to decide what to do.

Regal sighed. "If I find that you've lied to me, then we have the consequences I referred to." He paused to scrutinize Peter, before adding, "And just in case it wasn't clear, it's Neal who will bear the full brunt of them, not you."

Then he took his foot and pressed down on Neal's neck.

Neal didn't wake up, but he shifted his body, trying to escape the sudden pressure, and let out a faint, inarticulate sound.

"Now, Agent Burke, are you sure you don't want to reconsider your answer?" Regal's tone was one of pleasant inquiry, akin to that of a waiter asking a patron if he'd like another glass of wine.

Peter hesitated, looking down at Neal; Regal smiled wider.

Never in his life had Peter experienced such a visceral, blinding urge to hurt another human being.

Fear, dark and near-paralyzing, coursed through him. _You can't give that to him. You can't make it that easy for him to take Neal._

The fear was followed quickly by anger. Now that he knew Regal meant to abduct Neal, it went against everything in Peter's nature to just . . . meekly hand over the means without a fight. Without even trying to keep it.

Peter wasn't an accomplished liar like Neal was, though. Neal had often remarked, with his customary cockiness, on Peter's shortcomings in that area,

_Should I try to lie? Or should I admit that I have it?_

_You can't make it that easy for him to . . . . You just can't._

_But if he sees through you . . . ._

"I'm telling you, _I don't have it,"_ Peter ground out, tearing his eyes away from his helpless partner and meeting Regal's skeptical gaze. He knew his rage, his panic was showing. For once, he let it happen, hoping it would hide his nervousness and help convince Regal he was telling the truth.

_Think, Peter. Sell it. Improvise. Like Neal would do. Neal would—_

_**Neal was a thief. **_

"You think the Bureau is going to let the one thing he needs to escape be readily available to him?" Peter finally retorted, projecting all the contempt he could muster. "Caffrey's a world-class pickpocket. He could lift that key anytime he felt like it and be gone in ten seconds."

The last bit was all the more convincing (Peter hoped) because it was actually true. How many times had Neal pilfered Peter's wallet, just to show off? Taking the key would be child's play for him—if he wanted to.

_Except he didn't want to._

Pausing to let that bit of inspiration sink in, Peter watched Regal, trying to decide if the man believed him, before adding, in a more relaxed tone, "So, yes, the bureau has a key to his anklet. In a very secure location at the office where only I can get to it."

_If you want to take him, you bastard, you're going to have to cut that anklet to do it._

_Except that all he has to do is search you, _the practical part of his mind countered. _That's all he has to do. And if he finds it, God only knows what he'll do to Neal. You're taking a hell of a chance. _

Yes, it was a risk. But Peter had already decided that it was worth it.

"Too much temptation, eh?" Regal said, removing his foot from Neal's throat and grinning down at him. Neal lay there, still inert, his breathing now ragged. "They don't trust you, Neal—did you hear that? Well, we'll just have to address the problem of your electronic shackle later."

Peter fought the urge to breathe a sigh of relief that, at least for the moment, the key was safe. Quickly, he changed the subject to distract Regal from his lie—and the threat to shoot the anklet off.

"How do you know about that?" Maybe it was a mistake to ask, but at this point Peter was grasping at straws: delay tactics were all that he had left.

"A friend of a friend in law enforcement shared the details of your arrangement," Regal answered. "Not that it matters now."

He came back toward Peter, stepping over Neal's unconscious form. Peter held very still, watching. As the man came closer, he took out his phone, tapping in a password before holding it up in front of him.

"Smile, Agent Burke," Regal taunted. Peter heard the phone clicking.

_The bastard was taking pictures of him._

Peter scowled. "What the hell are you doing?"

Regal didn't answer; he was checking the phone, smiling at what he saw there. "That's nice," he said to himself, sounding pleased. "I'm something of a documentarian, you see."

Then he put the phone away and aimed his gun at Peter's chest.

Peter stared down into the black hole of the muzzle, held his breath and made a quick mental apology to Neal. _I'm sorry I let this happen. I screwed up, this isn't your fault. _

He thought of Elizabeth, and the dinner at Le Bernardin that they'd never get to share. He thought of how beautiful she'd looked that morning when he'd kissed her, never imagining that it would be for the last time. How devastated she'd be when they told her he was dead. How much he loved her—and though, of course, she knew that, he still should have told her far more often . . . .

_How goddamned stupid he'd been to let this happen . . . ._

Peter waited for the boom of the shot, wondering with an odd, almost clinical detachment what it would feel like, how long it would take for him to bleed out, whether Diana and Jones would be able to track Regal down and save Neal . . . .

But Regal didn't fire. This allowed Peter to start breathing again, but his anxiety intensified a moment later when Regal looked a warning at him not to move and came closer. He pressed the barrel of the gun hard against Peter's right temple, forcing his head to the left. Peter resisted the instinct to close his eyes, not wanting to give Regal the satisfaction.

_He's going to fire from close range. Execution style._

But he didn't. Instead, he put a hand on Peter's forearm, jerking downward sharply to make sure the cuffs were secure. Then Regal reached up—he was taller than Peter, and could do so relatively easily—and ratcheted the cuffs down so they were excruciatingly tight around Peter's wrists.

"I hope you weren't planning to try to slip these, Agent Burke." Regal said reproachfully.

Peter's eyes watered from the pain as the metal bit into his skin, but he managed not to react.

That task completed, Regal slipped a hand into Peter's pocket. _He's going for my Bureau ID, _Peter thought. But, again, he was wrong. Instead, Regal emerged with Peter's wallet in hand. Stepping back, he began to examine the contents. A few seconds later, he stopped and smirked at Peter.

There was an insidious glint in his eyes. That—and something in Peter's gut—told him a bad situation was about to get worse.

"Is this your wife?" Regal inquired, holding up a photo of Elizabeth.

Peter's mouth went dry. _Shit. Definitely worse._

"She's lovely. What's her name?"

"Go to hell," Peter spat.

Regal let out a long, exaggerated sigh, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "You're not going to answer?" He tsked. "And here I thought you were a wise man. Surely by now you know how this is going to proceed. Is there some point to this continued defiance?"

When the agent remained silent, Regal shrugged. Then a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. "Ah. I guess there is. You must want to see me abuse poor Neal again. I had no idea a respectable FBI agent would get off on that sort of thing, but then, something tells me Neal would try the patience of a saint. Fine, if that's what you want—it's not as if _I_ mind."

He tucked Elizabeth's picture into his pocket, turned on his heel, and sauntered back toward where Neal lay. "How unfortunate," he called over his shoulder, "that Neal should have to pay the price for your lack of cooperation."

_Think, Peter. Think, for God's sake. You need to find a way out._

Peter took advantage of his captor's back being turned to examine the bolts of the shelves he was tethered to. Frantically, he pulled as hard as he could on the metal, ignoring the pain in his wrists, the cramping in his shoulders. There was no way he could escape the cuffs, but he was hoping to feel some give in the shelf supports, some weakness that might allow him to break free.

_In his mind he could see himself working the metal loose, bringing the shelves down and freeing himself. In his mind's eye, he charged over to Regal, knocked the gun out of his hand, and beat him into unconsciousness before he could do anything else to Neal . . . ._

In the real world, though, the shelves were too goddamned solid. Nothing moved, nothing gave.

And Regal had almost made it back to Neal's side . . . .

"Elizabeth," Peter said, through gritted teeth.

Regal stopped and looked back over his shoulder at Peter. "Excuse me?"

"Her name is Elizabeth." He bit off each word.

"Elizabeth," Regal repeated, sounding pleased as he turned to face Peter. "I do prefer the traditional names. Spare me the _Brittanys_ and the _Ashleys_. Elizabeth. I like it quite a lot."

Peter took a deep breath. "If you even think about going near her—"

Regal cut him off impatiently. "Save your breath, Agent Burke. And don't tempt me. We both know that, right now, if I wanted to, I could intercept her outside her place of business, escort her away to someplace secluded, and take my time teaching her what a real man feels like. Do you think she'd enjoy that? Or would she fight back?"

Peter, consumed with fury that threatened to overwhelm him, pressed his lips together. It was either that or say something he'd live to regret.

Or, given the way things were going, _not_ live to regret. Whatever.

"Yes, I imagine she would fight. All the better—when they're too submissive, it's rather boring. At least at the beginning . . ." his voice trailed off as he appeared lost in thought. "Of course, I could show her the photos I just took of you. I imagine that seeing your predicament would make her remarkably complaisant."

As Regal stared off into the distance, an unpleasant little smile played around the corners of his lips. When he spoke, his voice had a dreamy quality. "I can picture it now. Can you? It would be so easy, Agent Burke." He held up Peter's phone. "Elizabeth is speed dial one, I presume?"

Something stuttered in Peter's chest.

"I simply use your phone to text her, ask her where she is. At work? Or perhaps at home, in . . ." he paused to riffle through Peter's wallet once more and then said delightedly, ". . . ah, here it is. _Brooklyn_." He read the address off Peter's driver's license, then looked up to catch the agent's reaction.

"Really, you should _see_ the look on your face right now, Agent Burke." Regal said in a teasing voice.

He chuckled and shook his head. "Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Of course, Elizabeth thinks the message is from you. I tell her she needs to meet me, it's an emergency, tell no one. When she comes out, my men are waiting."

Peter felt his whole body turn to ice.

"_Then_," Regal continued conversationally, "then comes the _coup de grace. _I send her the photograph of you, restrained and helpless. Along with some ridiculously melodramatic message like, _if you ever want to see Peter again, you'll get in the car._ And, of course, she will. That would be just the sort of thing a loving wife would do, don't you think?"

_Bastard._

"We'd get to see, then, how much she would fight me. Regardless of _her_ reaction, I'm sure _I _would enjoy it; she looks luscious. The kind of woman I'd like to know better," Regal said, with a suggestive leer that made Peter want to strangle him.

Then he added, with deliberate casualness, "By the way, does Neal know Elizabeth?"

Cold sweat dripped down the middle of Peter's back. _What the hell. _He wished he knew what game Regal was playing; it would make answering easier. As it was, every instinct told him to lie.

"No."

Regal gave Peter a sorrowful look, shaking his head in disappointment. He turned and took one last step to stand next to Neal. Then he drew back his leg to deliver a casual yet vicious kick to Neal's ribs.

Neal let out a muffled groan.

"You don't have to do this," Peter said, trying to sound reasonable, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

"Of course, I don't have to," Regal said patiently, rolling his eyes as if he couldn't believe Peter could be that dense. He smiled, sweetly at first, but then it turned into something sinister and savage that scared Peter shitless. "I _want_ to."

Regal's foot thudded audibly into Neal again, connecting flush with his temple this time. Neal's head snapped hard to the side from the force of the blow, but otherwise he didn't stir or make a sound.

Peter inhaled sharply at the sight, clamping his lips together to keep from cursing, or pleading, because he knew that was just what Regal wanted. He could feel hopelessness creeping in, threatening to crush him. _Jesus. _

Regal looked down, stopped, and narrowed his eyes. After a moment, he made a little moue of distaste.

"Well, that's unfortunate," he announced, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief. He bent down to inspect and then wipe his shoe, frowning.

"Blood on leather is one of the trickiest things to remove,"

When he straightened up and examined the handkerchief, the white cloth was stained red.

_With Neal's blood._

Peter's throat constricted and he had to force air into his lungs as he seethed. At Regal. At himself. The rush of emotions was making it hard to think about anything except how much he wanted to tear this man to shreds with his bare hands.

Regal carefully folded the handkerchief, wrapped it inside a clean one, and tucked them back in his pocket before returning his focus to Peter. "Initially, you were honest with me about Elizabeth. I already knew her name—I'm sure you didn't realize that. But you're lying to me now, Agent Burke. And I did warn you about what would happen should you try to deceive me. If your Neal here were awake, I'm sure he'd beg you not to do it again."

Regal looked down at Neal, an incongruous look of affection on his face. "I bet he's enchanting when he begs."

He smashed his foot into Neal's midsection; Neal spasmed weakly.

Peter swallowed bile; it felt like he was choking on his own hatred.

"I imagine you're quite consumed with curiosity by this time," Regal observed. "Would you like me to explain?

When Peter's only response was a silent stare, Regal tilted his head and raised an eyebrow at the agent. "I asked you a question, Agent Burke," he said, the threat in his voice unambiguous. To further emphasize the point, he brought his leg back in a preparatory motion, and Peter, watching it, said hastily, "Yes."

Regal smiled and nodded approval, letting his foot drop back onto the floor. "Very good. You're learning. Do keep in mind that answering my questions is not optional."

"Anyway . . . you conducted several interviews at the museum the other day," Regal continued tranquilly. "After you left, one of my colleagues mentioned that she had seen your Neal at an event recently. You must admit, he is rather memorable."

Regal paused. "Except there, Neal introduced himself as _Peter Burke_. And my colleague remembered the name because she met the man's wife, who'd planned the whole evening. She was so impressed with _Elizabeth Burke_ that she said we should keep her in mind for our next donor event."

He reached into his own wallet, leafing through it idly. Finally Regal pulled out a small piece of paper and held it up.

It was Elizabeth's business card.

Peter felt his stomach drop. The Stanzler Gallery event.

_I'll be accompanying Elizabeth, Neal had said._

_As my wife's husband, Peter had chimed in._

_At the time, everyone had laughed . . . ._

"So, of course, Neal knows Elizabeth. And apparently you and Neal share her, which rather contradicts your buttoned-down exterior, but who am I to judge?" Regal remarked. "The point is: you lied to me. Do it again and Neal suffers again. Is that what you want?"

Peter knew he had to answer. God, how he despised this man. "No," he said, just as Regal kicked Neal again. Neal let out a low sound that made Peter's heart twist painfully in his chest.

"Quicker next time, Agent Burke," Regal said sternly. "For Neal's sake. Broken ribs are awfully painful, and I assure you, Neal's going to have enough problems as it is."

Regal stepped back, over Neal, then knelt next to him, careful to face Peter as he did so.

_Whatever he's going to do next, he wants you to see._

"Your Neal is even more breathtaking up close," Regal said appreciatively. He leaned in closer so that he could tilt the younger man's head toward him. Then he gently brushed the hair out of Neal's eyes before pulling out his phone and snapping a few pictures of Neal's battered face.

Peter felt nauseated.

Regal was quiet for a few moments as he tapped on his phone busily. With renewed trepidation, Peter wondered what he was doing, but this time, Peter didn't ask.

He was too afraid of what the answer would be.

When Regal was finished, he leaned back on his heels to survey Neal, contemplating him with a fond expression that made Peter want to throw up.

"He's still stunning despite the blood and the bruises, although—can I be honest with you, Agent Burke?—a part of me thinks they only enhance the look." He paused. "I've always found that sort of thing oddly attractive, as Neal may come to learn."

"How ever do you manage to keep your hands off him?" Regal mused. He ran a hand through Neal's disheveled hair, glancing up at Peter with that malignant smile on his face once more.

Peter said nothing. And did nothing. He limited himself to breathing, to maintaining an even rhythm. In, out, in, out.

_Don't react to him. Don't fucking give him what he wants._

"Or perhaps you do allow yourself a few . . . indulgences?" Regal asked. He looked down again as he stroked Neal's face. Peter watched, feeling sick, as the man traced the outline of Neal's mouth, then ghosted his fingers along Neal's jawline and neck, down his chest and abdomen, stopping just below the belt.

Regal gazed at Peter with a predatory grin. "I must tell you: you look awfully _possessive_ right now, Agent Burke. Is that jealousy I'm seeing?"

_No, you're confusing jealousy with murderous rage,_ Peter thought, fighting to keep his composure as white-hot anger burned in his chest.

He had to take a few seconds before he could speak.

"I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer, except to say that it's disgusting," Peter said, distantly aware of how dispassionate his voice sounded as he watched this . . . this monster fondle his unconscious partner while he was powerless to stop it.

"So you _don't _indulge yourself, then," Regal said, a note of something like admiration in his voice as he shook his head. "Commendable fortitude in the face of such staggering temptation. I can already tell that _I _wouldn't be able to resist him. You're a better man than I, Agent Burke. I'm a bit of a libertine, myself."

Regal caressed Neal's face again, tenderly at first, then letting his fingers linger on the shadow of the bruise around his eye. He pressed on it with more force, looking fascinated and then smiling in satisfaction when Neal moaned in response, eyelids fluttering as he tried to turn his head away.

The sickening intimacy, the casual violence, and Regal's undisguised pleasure at what he was inflicting, filled Peter with revulsion. He fought to suppress a shiver of horror.

Regal glanced up at Peter, grinning slyly once again. "Am I getting under your skin yet, Agent Burke?"

"It looks more like you're trying to get under his," Peter shot back without thinking.

Regal chuckled. "Wit under pressure. Impressive."

Peter swallowed hard.

Regal's phone buzzed. Seemingly lost in thought—and fixated on Neal—he didn't answer right away. Long moments passed as Regal let his fingers rove over Neal's face, his throat, before finally answering the call, looking displeased at being interrupted.

"Did you get it?"

He paused to listen, then let out a low, salacious laugh that made Peter shudder. "Isn't he? And the photo doesn't do him justice, I assure you."

_Oh, Jesus. No. _Peter's heart sank.

"That tasty morsel is Neal Caffrey, our new protégé . . . no, not yet. I had to knock him unconscious. But never fear—he and I will be spending lots of time together very soon."

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

As Regal listened, he threaded his fingers through Neal's hair, staring intently and seeming to enjoy it as Neal's breathing quickened when he pulled cruelly on the dark strands. Again, Neal tried to turn his head, as if to get away; Peter could see Regal grip Neal's hair by the roots to force him to be still. After a moment, Regal, his hand still fisted in Neal's hair, lifted Neal's head up and slammed it back to the ground. Neal exhaled loudly, making a low, pain-filled sound, and stopped moving.

Peter winced, biting back a curse.

Regal resumed his conversation. "Believe me, he's even more exquisite in person."

Another pause.

"So true. Anything that pretty ought to be illegal. And in a way, he is: our darling Neal's a criminal."

Regal chuckled again. "Yes, he will. Whether he wants to or not. He has quite an array of skills."

Releasing his grip on Neal's hair, Regal stroked his face again.

He listened, then rolled his eyes. "You _are _twisted. I was referring to his abilities as a forger and a thief. Though it will be fascinating to discover what other . . . talents he has."

Regal touched Neal's lips, tracing their outline with a forefinger before forcing them open slightly, leaving his finger there for a moment. Then he moved his hand down to encircle his captive's neck. Peter, transfixed in fear, could tell when he started to apply pressure to the trachea, because even unconscious, Neal began to twitch and gasp for breath.

Regal smiled, seeming to drink in the sight of Neal's distress as he continued his conversation.

"Of course, I'll let you have your turn with him. Eventually. Don't I always share?"

Equal parts rage and horror flared in Peter.

Neal's struggle to draw in air had grown loud in the quiet. His head rolled from side to side in desperation, and the wheezing, whimpering noises he was making made Peter's stomach lurch.

Peter tensed as he felt his wrists burn and something warm trickle down his forearm. He thought it was sweat until he looked up and realized that, without conscious thought, he was pulling on the cuffs again, this time hard enough to make his wrists bleed.

"_Jesus Christ, you're going to kill him!"_

It was as if the words had been torn from Peter, almost as if someone else had said them. But no, _he'd_ said them, in a fierce, desperate voice that sounded like a stranger's.

Regal brought his gaze up to meet Peter's then, observing him for a long moment with a look of sheer, almost beatific pleasure on his face.

"I need to put you on hold for a moment," he said to the person on the other end, completely casual as he took the phone away from his ear, muting it. Then he looked down again at Neal, still writhing piteously in Regal's unrelenting grip, now making a horrible strangled sound that Peter was pretty sure would feature prominently in his nightmares—if he lived long enough to have any.

"_Kill him_?" he repeated, and then he smiled that smile again, the one that had scared Peter before. "Certainly not." Now he looked disappointed. "What would be the amusement in that? Though sometimes it _is _fun to pretend."

Watching the hand wrapped around Neal's throat, Peter could see Regal's knuckles turn white as he dug his fingers in, increasing the pressure. Neal's whole body jerked frantically in response.

Regal's expression became thoughtful. "Your fears about murder are quite misplaced, Agent Burke." He paused, then clarified. "Not _needless, _mind you. Just misplaced."

Regal returned his gaze to his victim. "Did you hear that, Neal? He's _so worried _about you. It's quite touching, really. And silly, too. As if I would deprive myself of the pleasure of your company this early in the game."

Neal was still struggling to breathe, still feebly rolling back and forth in a weak, futile effort to free himself.

Finally Regal let his hand relax, leaning down close to coo into Neal's ear. Where he'd been squeezing a moment before, now he trailed his fingers along the slim column of Neal's throat, massaging it gently.

"Shh, shh, Neal, it's all right. See? That feels better, doesn't it?" Regal murmured kindly. "Hush now. Poor thing. Just breathe. There you go."

Neal stilled, taking in air in loud, shuddering gasps. After a long moment, they finally quieted and his body went limp. Peter's stomach twisted into a knot.

Regal leaned back to watch, pausing until Neal had stopped wheezing before bringing the phone up to his ear again and laughing carelessly. "Sorry about that—just entertaining myself."

As the person on the other end spoke, Regal diverted himself once again by petting Neal's bruised face and carding his fingers through Neal's hair. "That's right; I'm at the warehouse. But there's no need to hurry." He gave Peter a dismissive glance. "I have things fully under control here."

He nodded. "Fine. Have him put everything in motion as we planned. We'll need to move now. But tell him to bring his bag of tricks. And a syringe. I want our delectable new associate heavily dosed so he doesn't wake up during the trip."

Involuntarily, Peter closed his eyes for an instant as he listened. Icy tendrils of fear snaked down his spine.

_This isn't happening. This can't be happening. _

_How the _fuck_ did I let this happen? _

Regal clicked the phone off and looked over at Peter, an affable expression on his face. "Unless I miss my guess, you look like you have something you want to share, Agent Burke. Am I right?" he inquired politely.

"Neal works for the FBI," Peter said, speaking slowly, calmly, concentrating all his effort on sounding authoritative, on not showing how petrified he felt at this moment. "You kidnap him, they come after you. And they won't stop." He didn't bother to say, _I'll come after you._ He had to assume that there was no way Regal was going to let him live, not after allowing him to see this.

He might be past saving, but he had to try to save Neal.

Regal eyed him appraisingly. "Are you trying to frighten me, Agent Burke?"

"Just telling you how it's going to be. Just trying to keep you from making a big mistake."

"I see. Because an unarmed man, who's gotten himself chained to a shelf while his partner lies beaten and defenseless on the floor, is certainly an expert on _not making mistakes_," Regal observed, contempt dripping from his voice.

Peter had no answer for that.

"If I seek advice, it will be from someone who has demonstrated a modicum of competence. Frankly, there's only one topic I want to hear from you on. I'm sure a _smart_ man such as yourself knows just what that is—and what the consequences will be for Neal if you refuse."

Regal gazed down at Neal speculatively, then looked back up at Peter. "You claim that it's purely professional between you and this charmer. So why do you keep him around? After all, as you said earlier, he's just _not worth the trouble_." Regal's sarcastic tone made it clear he didn't buy it.

"He does help us solve cases," Peter said flatly, afraid now of what else Regal would do to Neal if he didn't answer, or tried to lie.

To his relief, Regal got up, stepping over Neal and advancing several steps toward Peter. Peter would much rather have Regal focus on him instead of Neal, as dangerous as that might be for Peter.

Regal kept striding toward him. Peter watched him come and wondered what he would do next. Wondered if Regal intended to kill him now or wait until later.

"What will the FBI do?" Regal queried.

_So it would be later, apparently. Because he's not finished interrogating you yet._

Stalling was one of the very few tactics Peter had left—maybe the only one. And if he wasn't careful and pushed things too far, Neal was going to end up paying the price again. The last thing Peter wanted to do was provoke Regal into another demonstration of how vicious he could be.

"What do you mean?" he asked coolly.

"You know exactly what I mean, Agent Burke." The warning note in Regal's voice was unmistakable.

Then Peter, out of the corner of his eye, thought he saw a flicker of . . . _something. _Behind Regal. _But there was nothing there, no one except—_

It was at that moment that Peter realized, with a jolt that felt like a goddamned electric _shock_, that all that prodding and kicking and . . . touching of Neal, meant to torment Peter as much as anything, had had an effect Regal wasn't expecting.

Because, from his position on the floor behind Regal, Neal was _moving_.

_Oh, Jesus. Neal._

It was simultaneously one of the most beautiful and one of the most frightening things Peter had ever seen.

_TBC…._


	5. The Law of Sacrifice

**Critical Hour **

**Chapter 5 – The Law of Sacrifice**

"_**The law of sacrifice is uniform throughout the world. To be effective it demands the sacrifice of the bravest and the most spotless."**_

― Mahatma Gandhi

* * *

Without warning, Regal turned on his heel, away from Peter and back to Neal. Peter's eyes widened in alarm. It had happened so fast that he hadn't had time to respond. He needed to keep the man's attention on him, instead of on Neal.

"Regal," Peter burst out. But Regal didn't answer, or stop.

_You were too slow. He's going to see that Neal is awake._

Numb with fear, Peter waited to see how Regal would react to this development. But, fortunately, by the time Regal turned, Neal had stilled again. A few quick steps later and Regal was back at Neal's side, walking around him and crouching down to gaze at him with warm affection. He reached out first one hand to Neal, and then the other. Peter held his breath, afraid to see what fresh abuse Regal would inflict.

This time, the man's touch was delicate, almost tentative. Once more, it was such a dramatic contrast to the brutality of just a few moments ago that Peter was taken aback. Instead of striking Neal, or grabbing him, Regal carefully loosened the knot in Neal's tie, then gently worked it down so there were several inches between the fabric and Neal's neck, so that it hung low on his chest. He unbuttoned first the top button of Neal's shirt, and then the second one. Pausing, he let his hand linger on Neal's chest for a moment before unfastening the third button.

_Jesus, _Peter thought, swallowing hard against the lump that had formed in his throat.

Regal addressed his victim with what sounded like the deepest concern, a sympathetic smile on his face. "Perhaps this will help you breathe easier. Is that better, Neal?" Regal pushed the shirt open and the tie aside, then stroked his index finger up and down on the smooth, exposed skin of Neal's chest. His other hand, Peter realized with a sudden flare of horror, was resting on Neal's upper thigh, rubbing gently, fingers spread out as he kneaded in ever-widening circles. His voice was low and soothing. "You're breathing better now, that's good. You're so good, Neal."

_The concerned gaze, the tender gestures, the hushed whispers . . . Regal looked and sounded like a—_

_No. _Peter's mind rebelled against completing that thought. It made his stomach churn to even consider it. He shuddered involuntarily.

Regal was so immersed in Neal, it was almost as if he'd momentarily forgotten that Peter was even there.

That didn't last, though. A few seconds later, Regal looked up at Peter. His hands were still on Neal, very deliberately caressing his chest and thigh. When Regal saw that Peter was watching, saw the appalled rage on the agent's face that Peter couldn't conceal, his lips curled into a smug grin.

"You seem quite taken with our little scene, Agent Burke. Enjoying the view? Maybe regretting that you didn't treat yourself when you had the chance?"

His voice turned icy. "Meanwhile, you haven't answered my question. I asked you _what the FBI will do_." Every carefully-enunciated word was laced with menace.

"And, really, it would be so much better for Neal if I didn't have to ask you again."

Slowly, he slid his left hand up Neal's chest, toward his neck, and gave Peter a challenging look. Regal didn't need to say a word to make the threat crystal clear.

Peter recovered. "To catch a perpetrator who murdered an agent and kidnapped a consultant?" he replied, fighting to maintain some semblance of calmness. "Everything."

"Right, right." Regal's manner was nonchalant. He looked down with a doting expression. "Later, Neal," he said, in a voice that spoke of promises, a voice that sent chills down Peter's spine. He brought his hand up to Neal's face, touching his cheek softly and tracing a path up to his forehead, fingering the bruises along the way; Neal groaned in response, and Regal smiled. When he lifted his hand away, his fingertips were red. Casually he wiped them off on Neal's shirt, leaving bloody streaks on the white cloth.

With one last lingering look at Neal, Regal rose gracefully, stepping around him to walk back to where Peter stood.

"I'm sure the FBI will be very upset. Presumably more about you than him, I'd wager. Let's examine some other scenarios, then. Suppose I leave you alive?"

"That wouldn't change anything." Peter wondered where Regal was going with this. "Neal's one of us. We'll hunt you down to bring him back. The FBI specializes in kidnappings."

Through all of Regal's latest attentions, Neal had remained motionless, and Peter had begun to think he'd imagined that Neal had moved at all. But apparently it had been real. Because Neal was moving again. Peter couldn't tell if his eyes were open, but his legs were definitely shifting.

"Even if it's clear Neal _wasn't_ kidnapped?"

Peter scoffed, keeping his eyes fixed on Regal and not what was happening behind him. "In this scenario, if you leave me alive, I'll vouch that he was."

Regal's smile was disturbing, but at least he was focused on Peter. "Ah, but maybe you won't be in a _vouching _frame of mind, Agent Burke. At least not for quite some time. And if Neal's fingerprints are on the weapon I use, if some appropriately incriminating calls and texts are sent to and from Neal's phone, well . . . I wonder what your colleagues would think then?"

"They'd never buy it," Peter said, hoping he was right. "Neal's not violent. And he's too smart for that. It's why he's useful."

On the floor behind Regal, Neal was twisting back and forth. Peter could just see it out of the corner of his eye.

"So you're finally admitting that Neal _does _have his uses, after all. I'm well aware, of course," Regal said, blessedly oblivious—for the moment—that Neal appeared to be on the verge of, somehow, waking up. "I did a spot of research, after you left the museum the other day. Your pet convict has had quite an impressive career. Allegedly, anyway."

_That sounded like something Neal would have said._

Neal, who, against all odds, was _moving._ Neal, who had every appearance of trying to get up; he'd managed to roll over onto his side, trying to get leverage.

Neal was on his own, but there was one thing Peter could do to help. He could keep Regal talking, keep him distracted from what was going on behind him. So he said, "Neal was convicted of bond forgery. Now he works for us."

"No, actually, now he's being wasted," Regal replied. He let out an unpleasant little laugh. "So many skills. Such a valuable _asset." _There was something chilling about the stress he placed on the last word.

Peripherally aware of Neal's feeble efforts, Peter could feel the rush of hope he'd felt upon seeing Neal stir begin to melt away, tempered by harsh reality. So Neal was awake. What good would that do? He was injured, barely conscious, barely able to move. Suppose, by some miracle, he was able to actually get to his feet. Was there any chance he could escape without Regal seeing him and easily stopping him, easily dragging him back?

_No. No chance._

His apprehension grew, and part of him, the pessimistic part, almost wished Neal was still out cold. Because having watched Regal torment Neal while he was unconscious, Peter dreaded more than anything a repeat session, this time with Neal awake.

After what he'd been forced to witness, Peter knew, as he locked eyes with their captor, just how much this sadistic monster would relish that.

"I wonder if you're even aware of _all_ of his talents, Agent Burke. I spoke with a former colleague who knew of Neal back in the day and shared some very interesting details. Some things I bet even you don't know about your consultant."

Of course, Peter couldn't look at said consultant. He had to focus every ounce of his concentration on _not looking_, on staring steadily at Regal and not at Neal, who was struggling, with agonizing slowness, to lift his upper body off the ground.

Peter was so intent on silently willing Regal not to turn around that he didn't even wonder what details the man was referring to. Normally any scrap of information about Neal's mysterious past would command Peter's full attention, but he had other worries at the moment. Still, his job was to keep Regal talking, so he said, "What details?"

"It's not my job to do your research for you," Regal riposted. "But what I learned was most intriguing."

Neal had risen up, enough that he was wobbling on his knees—not quite straight, he was leaning a little to the side . . . .

Peter silently thanked God for the sound of the boiler in the distance; it helped to cover the little sounds of Neal clumsily trying to rise. It was never easy to get up when your hands were cuffed behind you. Particularly when you were suffering from a recently-inflicted head injury.

As if to validate what Peter had been thinking, Neal listed badly to the right. Peter's heart hammered painfully against his ribs. Neal was fighting gravity—and losing.

_He's going to fall, Regal's going to hear him . . . . _

Peter let out a breath, hoping Regal wouldn't notice he'd been holding it.

". . . a tight circle of associates," Regal was saying. "I've already got the team in place for my next project, but I'll make an exception for your Neal. And I have to admit, on a personal level, the thought of getting to know him better is quite enticing."

"You're not going to get the chance," Peter shot back.

"Oh, but I am," Regal replied. "Why not begin right now?"

Regal started to turn away from Peter, toward Neal . . . .

_For Christ's sake, do something. Say something. Stop him._

"_Wait,_" he said, desperately.

Just then, before he could say anything else, the trill of a phone broke the silence.

_My phone, _Peter realized.

Just in time, the sound stopped Regal in the act of turning back to where Neal was still swaying on his knees. Peter had a moment of relief at the distraction. But it vanished in a flash when he registered the expression on Regal's face as he checked the screen.

"Well, well," Regal said, excited. "Guess who, Agent Burke?"

The man's gleeful smile sent Peter's heart racing in terror. He said nothing.

Behind Regal, Neal slumped back to the ground, his body going slack. _Shit. He can't do it. He can't get up. _

At least Regal hadn't heard him fall. Of course, that was partly because something else had Regal's undivided attention at the moment.

"It's your lovely Elizabeth calling! Should we fill her in on your latest adventure?" Regal asked, holding the phone out to Peter. "What, you don't want to speak with her? What kind of a husband are you?" He chuckled, shaking his head in mock disappointment as the phone continued to ring.

"Unfortunately, she's going to have to wait, Agent Burke. Is she a patient woman, your wife? Or is that another thing I'd have to teach her?" He took out his own phone and tapped away. "Perhaps later. I'll keep her number, but I don't want to be interrupted just now."

A pause ensued while Regal waited. Eventually the phone rang through, presumably to voicemail.

_And Neal seemed to have stopped moving altogether. _ _Had he passed out again? _ Peter's heart sank.

'Let's hear what Elizabeth has to say, shall we?" Regal pocketed his own phone so he could put Peter's up to his ear. He nodded as he listened to the message. "Let's see . . . she hopes you're having a good day—" he frowned—"well, _that's _not happening . . . she's busy with a bid, et cetera, et cetera . . . and . . . ah, _here's_ something interesting." He listened intently, an animated expression on his face that made Peter's gut twist with worry. "She says . . . she was hoping to worm some information out of you about tonight's _surprise_."

He took the phone away from his ear. "Definitely a message we want to save. Maybe, if you're good, I'll let you hear her voice one last time." Regal smiled, raising an eyebrow at Peter. "She does have a delightful voice. It's almost . . . seductive."

Peter glowered at him, feeling the anger rising inside, not trusting himself to speak. He gritted his teeth instead.

"Now, let's get back to this _surprise_," Regal said briskly. "Do tell. What sort of fun and frolic has our clever Agent Burke planned for this evening?"

"Dinner," Peter muttered, immediately hating the fact that he hadn't improvised something other than the truth. But he could no longer risk what Regal would do if Peter didn't answer right away.

Regal looked sad. "Dinner. And _that's _not going to happen either. Poor Elizabeth. She doesn't know it, but she's going to be eating alone. And not just tonight." His face brightened. "Though we could still arrange for a surprise, couldn't we?"

He paused, watching Peter's face, before adding, "Did I forget to mention that she's at home? Very helpful of her to share her whereabouts. I could meet her there. That would be quite the surprise, wouldn't it?"

Peter's rage felt like it was a living thing, tearing at him from the inside, ripping him apart piece by piece.

Staring at Peter's phone, Regal was quiet for a moment, pondering. "Let me think a bit about what Elizabeth might enjoy. If we did meet, I would want our first encounter to be . . . memorable. In the meantime, let's get back to Neal, here," Regal said in a pleasant voice. "I'm looking forward to seeing what he can do."

"Yeah, well, Neal's not going to work for you," Peter said automatically.

Not Peter's wittiest rejoinder ever, but it was hard to be eloquent when you were terrified. He was gaining a whole new appreciation for Neal's customary glibness under pressure.

"Of course he will. And it won't all be _work_," Regal said, with another unsettling laugh that made Peter's skin crawl. "He might even enjoy it. After all, I'll be offering him the chance to be himself again."

"Except that's not who he is anymore."

Regal looked amused. "I'm sure that's what he'd like you to think. I wouldn't have believed an FBI agent could be duped that easily, but . . . " he swept a scornful gaze over Peter, head to toe and back again, ending with a lingering glance at Peter's wrists and the handcuffs that trapped them. "Given your current position, perhaps it's not so hard to believe after all."

"Neal's changed," Peter said stubbornly, ignoring the insult to his own capability. This was a stupid argument to be having, but right now anything that kept the man focused on Peter was good.

"_Now_ you say he's changed. But didn't you insist earlier that he can't be trusted?" Regal challenged.

"I did say that," Peter retorted. "The two aren't mutually exclusive."

Regal's laugh rang out, unexpectedly loud. "I'm sensing some real honesty from you on that point." He shrugged. "Well, for Neal's sake, I hope you're mistaken about his current proclivities. If he's truly suffered a sudden attack of probity, that will be problematic for him once he's with me."

On the floor behind Regal, Neal was once again struggling to move, awkwardly trying to push himself up with his left elbow.

"Let me clarify, Agent Burke. I don't care who Neal was or even what he is now. Because once I have him, Neal will be who I want him to be. In the end, he'll do what he's told. True, it may take some time to make him realize it. But it's all about leverage. The pictures of you and your charming Elizabeth could, perhaps, be a small part of that—it all depends on what motivates him. You had leverage on Neal, now I will."

_Oh, Christ. _

He couldn't remember ever wanting so badly to kill someone before.

"Neal's not so easy to control," Peter said, spouting off the first thing that came to his mind to keep Regal concentrating solely on him and not on what Neal was doing—or trying to do.

"Yes, you needed an electronic monitor to do it," Regal said thoughtfully. "He does seem the type to need an effective restraint. I have a different sort of leash in mind for Neal, but then again, I'm not an FBI agent. Fortunately, I needn't operate under the same constraints that limit you."

"No," Peter spat, letting fury spill out in his voice at last. "You'll be free to beat him—or worse—until he does whatever you tell him to."

Instantly he regretted it. Showing emotion was giving Regal just what he wanted.

"Hmm," Regal said, raising an eyebrow. "Are you making a suggestion?"

Peter stayed silent, angry at himself for letting Regal provoke him. _Don't engage him. It's not helping. Don't do anything stupid._

_And, above all, don't do anything that would give Regal a reason to turn back toward Neal_.

Neal was still trying to drag himself up off the floor.

"Really, Agent Burke. Just because _you _have all the subtlety of a sledgehammer . . . " Regal said, disdain plain in his voice. "I would never rule out physical correction when necessary, but I'll employ other tactics first with Neal to obtain his cooperation."

"It's not cooperation when you coerce it," Peter retorted.

"He seems a man of refined tastes," Regal mused, ignoring Peter's comment. "I think the way to begin, if he . . . resists, is by removing the creature comforts, strip him down to the essentials. And something tells me he craves companionship. Perhaps some extended time alone, under spartan conditions, would provide a sufficient inducement for him to modify his behavior."

Regal laughed, then shrugged. "My methods may be a bit more . . . extreme than yours, but once I've had him for a bit, well . . . he'll learn that I'm extraordinarily persistent when I have the whip hand. I won't need an anklet to control him. And Neal is quite smart enough to know what's good for him."

Neal had finally wrestled himself into a semi-sitting position, legs folded under him. His head was bowed.

"Rest assured that I'll bring Neal to heel," Regal went on. "And I'll enjoy it—much more than he will, I dare say. I only wish I had more time to pick your brain about the best methods to use in conditioning the dear boy."

Peter's blood felt as though it were boiling in his veins.

Regal smiled again, checking his watch. "Come to think of it, though, we do still have some time before I take my _masterpieces_ and go. You can use that time to review Neal's weaknesses, his own particular _bêtes noires. _Think of it as a homework assignment. We can discuss exactly which buttons to push, and where to apply just the pressure to break him. Later on, if I find that you're correct and Neal requires persuasion, he and I will explore those avenues together."

Neal appeared to be leaning forward now, trying to . . . what? Lever himself upward, apparently.

"It's unfortunate that I have to kill you, Agent Burke,"—and indeed he did sound regretful. "I would have relished the chance to send you regular updates on Neal's . . . progress. Really, maybe I should let you live after all."

He stared at Peter and narrowed his eyes, thinking. Peter watched him uneasily.

"Do you know, I . . . I've just had an idea," Regal said slowly, his manner speculative. "Admittedly, you're probably going to think it's a little _too_ unconventional, but I didn't get where I am today by doing the expected thing." An eager smile lit up his face, in a way that made Peter suddenly very, very nervous.

"Bear with me; this only just now occurred to me, so I'm thinking out loud, as it were . . ." Regal said, "but suppose . . . just _suppose_ I took you, as well." His gaze drifted off in the distance as he pondered.

When he resumed, his excitement was palpable. "Instead of killing you now, I take you captive. Hmm. I wonder if—granted, it would present certain . . . logistical issues, but nothing insurmountable, and I always welcome a challenge. It's an interesting idea, don't you think?"

"Oh, fascinating. So I would be working for you, too," Peter said, voice laden with sarcasm.

Regal gave Peter a look of pure exasperation. "Of course not. You would be making sure that Neal does."

Peter steadfastly ignored the frisson of fear that Regal's words had sent down his spine.

"The truth is, you really wouldn't have to _do_ much of anything in this scenario, Agent Burke. Your role would be integral, but passive in the extreme. So in _that_ sense, it would be easy, but in every other sense, I'm afraid you'd find it remarkably difficult . . ." Regal's voice trailed off as he shot Peter a chilling smile.

"If I had _you _in my possession," Regal mused, looking pleased with himself, "I might be able to control Neal much more easily. Without ever laying a hand on him." He laughed. "Not that I won't be laying hands on him anyway, but that would be in quite a different context. I think you know what I mean."

Unfortunately, Peter did know.

Regal continued to expound; the man certainly did enjoy the sound of his own voice. "You would be my version of Neal's ankle accessory. The anklet keeps him in line, correct? Well, if he chooses to be recalcitrant, if he defies me in any way, I rein him by using you. I keep you someplace safe, someplace quite inaccessible, and I simply punish you for his lack of cooperation, for any misdeeds he's foolish enough to commit. Of course, Neal is required to watch the punishment being inflicted. As a result, he conforms his behavior exactly to my wishes; meanwhile, I don't have to risk any physical damage to my new prize asset." He smiled. "The more I think about it, the more I like it. What do you think?"

_I think you are a goddamned fucking bastard. I think if I were free right now I would have a hard time deciding which way to hurt you first. I think . . . ._

"I think that might not motivate him as much as you seem to believe." _Which was probably the wrong thing to say, _Peter realized belatedly. He'd fallen into a rhythm where his default response was to argue with anything Regal said, but he needed to be more careful. The tension, the verbal fencing, the need to keep Regal from knowing what was going on behind his back, was wearing on him. Maybe he should be promoting this scenario, as horrifying as it sounded, because, at least, in _this_ scenario Regal didn't shoot him in the next five minutes.

Neal had straightened up, now on his knees once again. In the same position he'd been before. This was as far as he'd gotten the last time.

_Right before he'd fallen back down._

"I wonder," Regal answered. "You have to admit—that particular strategy has worked wonders on _you_ here today, Agent Burke." He smiled in satisfaction. "Let's review. You handed over your weapon and your cell phone. You handcuffed yourself, voluntarily placing yourself under my complete control. You even shared details about your dear wife, and yes, I saw how much _those _cost you to reveal."

Peter clenched his jaw at the litany of his failures. At the mention of Elizabeth. "Neal's not me."

On his knees, Neal was once again pitching to the side, dangerously close to tumbling back to the ground.

Regal ignored Peter's answer. "You did all of those things because you were afraid I'd hurt Neal. And judging by your reaction earlier when I _did _hurt Neal, there seems to be more of a bond between the two of you than you're letting on."

That was dead-on, but Peter sure as hell wasn't going to admit it. "Unlike you, I have some basic human compassion. I don't like seeing anyone hurt, and that certainly includes Neal. I won't deny that."

"But, essentially, you're claiming that Neal wouldn't react the same way," Regal commented. "That if I brutalized you by . . . oh, I don't know, beating you bloody or removing your fingernails with pliers, that Neal would be quite unmoved by it."

He chuckled. "Sorry for the clichés there, Agent Burke, I tend to have a flair for the dramatic, as you may have observed. I'm sure I could come up with something far more imaginative than those tired old methods. That was just off the top of my head."

"Then again," he noted with a careless little shrug, "sometimes the old ways are the best for a reason. Tried and true, you know."

Peter had no interest in discussing this son of a bitch's preferred torture methods. "You make it sound like it's going to be awfully easy. Like you're not going to be a most wanted fugitive with law enforcement breathing down your neck."

Neal was still on his knees, still wavering. Peter's chest flooded with fear, making it hard to breathe. _He's going to fall again. _

At the very last moment, somehow, just when he looked as if he were about to topple over once more, this time Neal steadied himself. Peter exhaled.

Regal sighed. "Oh, here we go again. I do understand the psychological need for you, at this moment of what must be utter desperation, not to mention humiliation, to seize on something that could give you hope. To fall back on your instinctual pride in the organization you work for, to want to believe that your intrepid colleagues will save the day. I can see why that would be a natural reaction for a man in your extraordinarily bleak position."

He paused. "But I've been evading law enforcement for a very long time." He came up to Peter then. Very quickly, he came in very close, stopping when his face was inches from Peter's. Peter had to fight the instinct to flinch away.

Regal dropped his voice to an intimate whisper. His breath was warm on Peter's face. "And I'm going to let you in on a little secret, Agent Burke. I'm not concerned about the FBI. _At all._ Can you guess why?" he asked mockingly, reaching up to run playful fingers over Peter's restraints, over his wrists, his fingers.

Peter stared back at him, refusing to show any sign of fear. He fought to keep perfectly still, to not recoil from the touch, to keep his breathing even and calm, willing this bastard to_ get the hell away from him _before Peter did something he'd regret.

_Like break one of his goddamned fingers._

A moment later, Regal drew the gun from his pocket and brought it up to Peter's chest, resting it there lightly. Then he dragged the weapon up a few inches to press the muzzle against Peter's neck, just above his tie.

"I have to say," Regal purred, "having my very own pet FBI agent sounds like an inordinate amount of fun. The possibilities are endless, truly."

Peter blinked as the pressure on his throat grew from uncomfortable to near-unbearable. He pressed his lips together and swallowed painfully, resisting the urge to cough. Leaning his head back, he tried to escape the pressure, but his position limited any movement. He knew he was sweating, but there was nothing he could do about that.

"Are you quite all right, Agent Burke?" Regal asked, voice dripping with mock concern. "You seem a bit . . . discomfited." Then a moment later, he brought his mouth up to Peter's ear, so close it was touching, and Peter did draw back then, involuntarily, as Regal said excitedly, "Ah. You're _nervous!_"

He dug into his pocket and brought out a handkerchief, using it to mop moisture off Peter's face. "Let me do this, since your restraints prevent you. So unpleasant to have perspiration running into your eyes."

Peter stared at him, and not at Neal, who—_oh, God_—seemed to have gotten one foot in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter could see that he was now precariously balanced on his right knee and his left foot.

"There, that's better," Regal said, moving back a little, but keeping the gun lodged against his throat. "So the idea of becoming my permanent guest has you breaking out into a cold sweat. I'm flattered."

Regal laughed at the hatred he saw in Peter's eyes. "And yet, as you said about Neal, I'm not sure you're worth the trouble. Absconding with you presents significant risk without any guarantee of either necessity or success."

From just a few inches away, Regal's gaze bored into Peter, as if waiting for something, for Peter to react in some way, maybe hoping he would plead. Without warning, Regal viciously jabbed the gun in further. Peter couldn't stop himself from closing his eyes and gasping in pain. Regal smiled in satisfaction, and then walked backward, a few steps away from Peter.

Back toward where Neal was hunched over, in the act of getting up.

Peter's mouth went dry.

Regal's voice turned pedantic—and forbidding. "Now it's time to discuss your assignment—you remember, the one I gave you earlier? The one where you're going to tell me all about our darling, precious Neal."

"Why would you think I would tell you anything that you could use to hurt Neal?" Peter snapped, saying the first thing that came to his mind as he tried to give Neal a few more seconds to do . . . whatever the hell he was going to do.

_And just what is he going to do? Besides fall down again, _Peter couldn't help thinking despairingly.

Neal was still on one knee, leaning forward now.

"Because if you don't share your knowledge, I'll hurt Neal right now," Regal said in an _isn't it obvious _voice. "It'll make what I've done to him so far look like child's play." He paused and then added casually, "As any doctor could tell you, the human body has several extra liters of blood beyond what's required to survive. And Neal doesn't really need _all _of his fingers and toes, does he?"

Peter blinked but kept his expression blank and his mouth shut. He didn't trust himself to speak. Once again, Regal was so over-the-top clichéd that it was almost ridiculous. Peter might have been tempted to laugh—if he didn't know that the man was completely serious.

"No, there's still plenty of fun to be had, still so much you can tell me," Regal remarked, then corrected himself, "so much about Neal that you _will _tell me. Although . . . now that I think about it . . . ." his voice faded away as he stared into space, reflecting.

Peter's wariness increased as the silence dragged on.

Regal examined Peter, his gaze piercing and sly. "I've just realized: you look bored, Agent Burke."

The words were innocuous, the tone solicitous, but Peter now knew enough about Regal to recognize this as a prelude to some kind of dangerous escalation. His pulse sped up.

Behind Regal, Neal fought to maintain his balance as he tried to push himself upward.

"There you are, locked into place, with nothing to distract you. How careless of me. I think it's time we remedy that."

"I'm fine," Peter said quickly.

"Now, now. Haven't I warned you not to lie to me?" Regal admonished. He was smiling that frightening smile again, and a sinister undercurrent was audible in his voice. "It's quite obvious that anyone in your . . . difficult situation would be terribly bored—how could you not be?"

Regal's expression grew thoughtful. "Have you ever studied Nietzsche, Agent Burke? He said, '_Life is a __thousand times too short for us to bore ourselves_.'" Regal shot Peter a meaningful look. "Considering your current predicament, rarely has a quote been so apropos."

"We can make better use of the time you have left, and I _will _make amends for my bad manners. There you are, compelled to be my guest, quite against your will, and I've made only the most minimal of efforts to entertain you."

Peter looked back at him levelly. "There's no need."

"You know," Regal remarked, "Neal seems like he could be quite the _entertaining_ sort, given the chance. And, I promise, you'll have a front-row seat."

At that precise moment, though, Peter had a front-row seat to something equally heart-stopping.

His partner was unarmed. His hands were tied. He was woozy and barely mobile. Given all these disadvantages, it was ridiculous for Neal to think that he could do anything useful. But it was clear he was going to try. After all, when had the fact that something seemed impossible ever stopped Neal from trying to do it?

"You can go to hell," Peter said, because he felt he had to say something and it seemed like an all-purpose kind of epithet, under the circumstances.

Regal looked at him with genuine confusion, like someone being asked to decipher the incomprehensible. "Maybe you can help me, Agent Burke. I'm afraid I don't understand. I keep trying to imagine what aspect of this encounter has led you to believe that you have any options left except doing _exactly what you're told_. I keep wondering why you insist on defying me, when the only result is going to be more unpleasantness for Neal to endure. I've shown remarkable restraint thus far; I've hardly damaged Neal and done nothing at all that's permanent. But I have no compunction about upping the ante. So tell me, please: what am I missing?"

_You're missing the fact that Neal is awake, for starters. _Even as Peter's mind responded pragmatically: _just how is that going to matter?_

Neal was more than awake though.

Because, against all odds, Neal was finally standing up. Swaying and unsteady, but upright for the moment. Peter had to fight the instinct to signal him, to scream at him to get out.

_Would he run? _

_And if he did, how far could he even go?  
_

No, Peter realized, he wouldn't run. _(Ironic, given that Neal was better at running than anyone Peter had ever known.) _ Say what you would about Neal—and over the years, Peter had said plenty—but he couldn't deny that Neal had a streak of loyalty that ran much deeper than most people gave him credit for. Especially, it had become clear over the last few months, where Peter was concerned.

So it wasn't in Neal's nature to leave Peter to face this alone. Neal was going to try to help . . . however foolhardy and dangerous that might be. He was standing, but his shoulders were slumped and his chin was resting on his chest. He looked more like a man on the verge of collapse than someone about to make an aggressive move.

_And any second now, Regal's going to turn around and see him. _Peter's chest tightened.

Regal's gloating continued unabated—which was fine with Peter at the moment because his single-minded focus on Peter was helping keep him oblivious to Neal. "Because when I look at you, Agent Burke, I see a man who's trapped and helpless. You have literally nothing left that I can't take if I desire it: your consultant"—he jerked a thumb back over his shoulder—"your wife"—he held up Peter's phone with a triumphant grin—"and, of course, your life"—he brandished the Glock.

Neal was gathering himself, straightening. He was leaning against the shelves, using them for support as he started to propel himself forward. His heart in his throat, Peter realized that, with few cards to play, Neal must be planning to use the only weapon he had against their captor: himself. Neal lowered his right shoulder, and began to come right at Regal from behind.

_Oh, God, _Peter thought. He could hardly bear to watch. It was _Neal being Neal. Reckless and foolhardy and . . . brave.  
_

Regal was still talking. "You're going to tell me everything I want to know. In fact, pretty soon, I predict you'll be begging me to ask the questions. Speaking of begging, I think this would be much more diverting if Neal were awake, don't you think, Agent Burke?" Regal was saying,

_At the same moment that Neal was staggering toward him, picking up speed as he came. _

Presumably with the goal in mind of forcing Neal back to consciousness, Regal turned—just before Neal made contact.

He must have seen Neal coming, but only at the very last moment and far too late to avoid the collision. Because Regal had turned back toward him, Neal's body block ended up being shoulder-to-chest. Neal plowed right into the man, leading with his right shoulder and knocking Regal over. Peter was pretty sure Neal had never played football, but it was a textbook tackle any linebacker coach would have been proud of. And of course there was the added degree of difficulty—that Neal had executed it with both hands tied behind his back.

_Which made it more of a block, really, if you wanted to get technical about it, _Peter thought, a little wildly.

Neal had crashed into Regal with more power than Peter would ever have thought possible from someone in his injured and weakened state. Taken by surprise and sent completely off-balance, Regal toppled backwards, his gun and Peter's phone clattering to the floor and bouncing away. His feet flew out from under him and the back of his head hit the floor with a wonderfully solid _thunk_ that was music to Peter's ears. Neal, unable to stop his momentum, fell along with Regal, ending up on top of him, lying across the man's chest.

Regal had been standing to Peter's right, but the force of the impact Neal had generated sent the two of them flying back behind and past Peter, skidding across the smooth concrete floor to end up on his other side. He quickly whipped his head around to see them lying a few feet away, now to Peter's left.

"Neal?"

Neal just laid there, motionless, with his head turned to the left, away from Peter. For a few seconds there was no sound except Neal's harsh breaths, no movement except Neal's chest heaving.

Then Peter felt his heart stop.

Regal was moaning. And moving. His eyelids were fluttering.

But Neal wasn't reacting. Peter pulled on the cuffs in frustration, watching helplessly.

"Neal! _Neal!"_

_TBC ….._

* * *

_A/N – I am humbled by and so grateful for all the wonderful reviews. It's a indescribable thrill to know people are enjoying. I've tried to respond to everyone who provided feedback—if I missed anyone or if you reviewed as a guest, thanks to all of you, too! _

_I probably should also apologize for the cliffhangers. They are abundant in this story and I know they drive many people up the wall. If you'd rather not deal with them, believe me, I understand. You can always wait til it's finished (and the story IS finished, though the end is quite a ways off.)_

_Next chapter coming soon. Thanks again, all._


	6. Times of Peril

**Critical Hour  
**

**Chapter 6 – Times of Peril**

"_**It is more useful to watch a man in times of peril, and in adversity, to discern what kind of man he is; for then, at last, words of truth are drawn from the depths of his heart, and the mask is torn off, so that reality remains."  
**_― Titus Lucretius Carus

* * *

"Neal! _NEAL_!" Peter screamed, all pretense of composure gone as he frantically tried to rouse him. "Come on, wake up! _Neal! _You've got to—"

Whether Neal heard him or not, Peter didn't know. And he didn't know what he would have told Neal to do, either, because he never got the chance. Before the agent could finish the sentence, Neal gasped and reared up, eyes wide. He arched his back, away from Regal, and then came forward and down, head-butting Regal squarely in the face.

Not once, but twice.

Neal cried out involuntarily from the force of the blows; Peter recoiled at the sound. There was a horrible crunching noise, as if someone had stepped on a bag of potato chips, which Peter recognized as the sound of facial bones breaking. He hoped fervently that they were Regal's and not Neal's.

Regal's head snapped back, smacking hard against the floor again. He looked to be out cold, lying face-up, blood now streaming down his face. He wasn't moving any more. But neither was Neal, who lay on top of him, face down. Peter spared a second to look around; Regal's gun had landed some distance away, further down the aisle. Peter's phone lay in pieces, shattered.

"Neal!"

No response.

"Neal. Answer me. Come on."

"I need you here, Neal. I need your help. Wake up. _Neal!_"

Finally, desperately, he yelled in frustration, "CAFFREY!"

That seemed to do it. Neal twitched and let out a low groan. He tried ineffectually to move his arms, which Peter realized were bound tightly with some kind of wire like what he saw wrapped around the pallets on the shelves surrounding them. Peter sucked in a breath at the sight. The bindings were too tight to slip, and there was no give to the wire, no lock to pick . . . .

He'd hoped that Neal was cuffed, like he himself was. Because Peter wouldn't ever bet against Neal Caffrey's ability to escape handcuffs, even when injured and semi-conscious. Picking or slipping cuffs was a game to Neal, one Peter had observed him playing sometimes in the office, for fun. _(Often with naive probies who, unlike Peter, were all too willing to bet against Neal, much to their regret.) _

No cuffs, here, though, Peter realized with a sinking feeling. To quote Regal, _it wasn't going to be that easy._ He'd restrained Neal what looked like sturdy, medium-gauge wire, wound tightly enough that Neal's wrists were rubbed raw and bloody, his hands starting to swell and discolor from lack of circulation.

"Neal, listen to me. Are you listening?"

"Lis'nin'," Neal muttered. He let out a long, slow sigh before adding vehemently, "Bastard."

It took Peter a minute to realize he was talking about Regal.

"Yeah," Peter said, and, just for a second, he had a bizarre, completely inappropriate urge to laugh, momentarily giddy with relief. He wondered how much of their conversation Neal had really heard.

"Arrogant . . . bastard," Neal repeated hoarsely.

"Hell, yeah," Peter agreed. "That was a hell of a tackle. Are you okay?"

"Been better."

"I'll bet. Neal, you need to get up."

With what looked like great effort, and without otherwise shifting from his position atop Regal's chest, Neal lifted his head a few inches so he could look over at Peter. Peter tried not to wince at the blood all over his face. He hoped most of it was Regal's. Neal's forehead was split open, which, of course, was what happened when you head-butted someone as hard as Neal had done. It looked as if maybe Neal had led with the crown of his head, rather than his face or his nose. If so, that at least was something positive.

Neal blinked at him, taking in Peter's confined state. "How'd you . . . what happened?"

"He had a gun to your head, Neal, remember? He said he'd shoot you if I didn't surrender my weapon. Then he handcuffed me here."

"Oh. Yeah. Bastard," Neal pronounced for the third time, frowning.

"Yeah," Peter replied, already worried about Neal's mental faculties, about how much he had left. The livid bruising around his eye was darkening and beginning to swell. Even from here, Peter could see Neal's hair was wet with blood where Regal had struck him. "Neal, this is important. You have to get up. If you can, I want you to get the gun."

At the last sentence, Neal's expression morphed into pure confusion, something one rarely saw with Neal. He was wide-eyed, like a bewildered child who couldn't understand why he was being punished. It was almost comical; if the situation hadn't been so deadly serious, Peter might have laughed.

"_Gun?_" Neal repeated vaguely, like the word was foreign to him.

Peter pushed on. "Yes. _His_ gun. It's over there." He gestured with his head. "You have to pick up the gun, Neal. Now."

He had a sudden, vivid flashback to the Howser Clinic, to Neal drugged and lying on the floor. The uncomprehending look on his face as he stared at the surveillance tape in Peter's hand. It was the same look he saw on Neal's face now.

_You stole that for me?_

"Y—you want me to shoot 'm?" Neal stammered, sounding shocked.

Peter inhaled and exhaled slowly. _If only. We'll see. _ "Right now, Neal, I want you to get the gun so _he_ can't shoot _us_."

The thought of Neal attempting to fire a weapon right now scared the hell out of Peter. _O__ne thing at a time._

For a long moment, Neal just stared at him blankly, like he either hadn't heard or hadn't understood. Peter feared he was zoning out. Eventually, in a delayed reaction that made Peter's gut clench and that screamed _serious head injury_, Neal's face slowly cleared and he let out a shaky sigh of relief.

"Oh, right. 'Kay. I ge' it." Peter tried not to worry about how slurred Neal's words were.

Obediently, Neal turned his head away, looking for the gun that had fallen to the floor. He twisted awkwardly to his left, sliding his feet off Regal's legs as he tried to get his lower legs onto the ground.

Peter was aware of Neal's clumsy, hesitant movements, but he didn't take his eyes off Regal's face, dreading the moment that his eyes started to open. If the man woke up anytime soon, both he and Neal were going to be in a world of trouble. Neal was spent, fading fast, and Peter was useless. It was all too reminiscent of being kidnapped by Keller. Then, he'd been restrained, but Neal had talked him through it.

Now, he was still restrained, and having to talk _Neal _through it.

One thing was clear: Being restrained was really getting old.

And there was no convenient safety pin or light-bulb filament for Peter to use to free himself this time.

He was brought back to the present by a low cry. Neal had stopped moving.

"Neal! What happened?"

"Jus' . . . hurts," Neal said. He stopped, panting shallowly through the pain, and Peter waited for what seemed like an agonizingly long time before Neal could get started again.

"Neal, you're doing good," Peter said, in the most encouraging voice he could muster. "You just need to keep moving."

Neal didn't answer.

"The gun bounced away when you hit him. It's about ten feet away, off to your left," Peter said, trying to pretend that he wasn't completely irrelevant in this situation by at least providing directions.

Still Neal said nothing. Despite his struggles, he hadn't gone far; he still lay face-down, with most of his weight on Regal's chest.

'Hey. Neal! You hearing me? Talk to me, pal. You need to get the gun, Neal."

_Jesus, don't let him have passed out again._

"Neal, wake up. You need to get moving, okay?"

A long drawn-out sigh, and then Neal said hesitantly, "So . . . tired. Maybe . . . maybe you could get it, Peter?"

Peter leaned his head against his upraised arm in frustration, letting his eyes close in despair for just a second, knowing Neal wouldn't see.

"I wish I could, Neal. But I can't. Cuffed, remember?" He looked over at Neal and rattled the metal, grimacing as the cuffs bit into his wrists.

"Hmm," Neal said, dragging his eyes up to look at Peter. "Riiiiiight. Shoulda remembered. Sorry. Sorry, I just . . . ." He left the sentence hanging. Peter's chest tightened with worry.

"How's your head, Neal? How bad is it?"

Neal sighed. "Dunno . . . where it is."

"What?" Peter frowned.

"M' hat."

"I didn't ask about your hat, Neal. I asked about your _head_."

Neal ignored that. "Where 's it?"

"Your _hat_?" Peter asked, dumbfounded. _Leave it to Neal . . . ._

" 's gone," Neal said, sounding utterly perplexed.

"You . . . you, uh, didn't wear one today," Peter said quickly, wondering how (and why) a person could be so fixated on sartorial issues as Neal was. Their lives were at stake and this, _this,_ was what Neal was worried about? But, of course, Neal's words echoed in his head.

_Don't blame me—you're the one who brought up my hat._

"Didn't . . . ?" Neal said, startled. "Why not?"

"_How the hell would I know?_ You wouldn't tell me," Peter retorted, irritation bleeding through into his voice. He'd given up trying to be patient; frankly, he just didn't have the energy for it, and God knew neither of them had the time for it. "You don't consult me when you're getting dressed in the morning. Now—"

"Good . . . thing," Neal interrupted, muttering under his breath.

"Neal, we need to get back on topic here," Peter said through gritted teeth. "Focus. You—"

"Mmm," Neal interjected again. His voice was alarmingly drowsy. "Hurts to move, Peter, it _hurts_—"

His voice broke off in a gasp of pain and Peter's breath caught in his throat at the note of raw anguish there, all his annoyance forgotten. "What hurts, Neal? Your head?"

"Uh huh. Head, ribs . . . ."

"Oh, yeah," Peter said, bitter at himself. "Sorry about that."

"Not—not your fault." Neal appeared mildly surprised.

"No, it kinda is," Peter said grimly, remembering that Neal had been unconscious for that part. "Anything else?"

"My throat . . . " Peter felt a cold chill as he saw, in his mind's eye, Regal's hand squeezing Neal's neck . . . _his grip tightening and Neal writhing desperately in response._ Peter gave a mental head shake, swallowing hard as Neal continued, " 'n my . . . shoulder. Feels like . . ." Neal's voice trailed off.

"What? It feels like what, Neal? Talk to me."

"Feels like . . . somethin's broken."

_Damn. _Peter wondered with a fresh spike of fear whether Neal had broken his collarbone when he'd smashed into Regal. It would explain the distress he was feeling.

And it would make what Peter was asking him to do next feel like sheer agony.

"Hurts," Neal added, as if he'd just thought of it.

"I know, Neal. But if you don't get moving, you're going to hurt a lot worse, trust me."

Neal didn't answer. Infuriated with his own powerlessness, Peter realized he was pulling on the cuffs again and had to take a deep breath, forcing himself to stop. The pain in his wrists and shoulders was bad enough already.

"Neal?"

"So tired. Don' think I can . . . get up . . . ." Neal said finally, his voice faltering.

_But you have to. _Peter bit back the automatic retort that had sprung to his lips. _No, _he told himself, _it's okay. He doesn't have to do it yet. He will. Later. Let him work up to it. He just needs some time. _Peter ignored the voice in his head that was screaming at him that they _had_ no time, that Regal could wake up any second, that—

"It _hurts_ . . . ." Neal said again. The plaintive tone of his voice tore at Peter's heart.

"I know, Neal. And it's okay if you can't get up right now. That's fine. We'll worry about that later. For now, why don't you try to just . . . just slide over there or crawl over, or whatever you have to do," Peter said, trying to project reassurance. Even if Neal managed to get up, he'd have to bend down or kneel down again to pick up the gun, and Peter didn't think the expenditure of energy needed to get Neal upright was worth it. Not when he was going to have to get back down again, anyway.

Neal made a small, relieved sound. "'Kay." He began to wriggle, as Peter had directed, off to his left, using his feet, mainly, to get started. A moment later he slid off Regal. Unable to brace himself with his hands, his upper body hit the floor hard. Peter bit his lip, hearing Neal's sharp intake of breath and the moan he couldn't hide.

For a moment, Neal just lay there face-down and motionless, taking in loud, shuddering gasps of air.

Peter waited, gut tight with tension, for Neal to start moving again.

Nothing.

"Okay, Neal, that's good. The gun is a few feet beyond you. Off to the left. When you're ready, you need to get over there and get it. Okay?"

'Y-yeah," Neal said, and the rough, unsteady way he said the word frightened Peter. But Neal did start moving again, using his feet and his whole body to slide himself, snake-like, across the warehouse floor.

His progress was slow, painful, and awkward, but it _was_ progress, and Peter tried to feel optimistic about that, tried to focus on that instead of the agony he knew Neal must be feeling.

Almost involuntarily, Peter's gaze kept flicking to Regal and then back to Neal. A person could die from a single blow to the head. Peter had a college friend who'd slipped on the stairs, fallen backwards, hit his head the wrong way, and never regained consciousness. He'd died at the horrifically young age of twenty-nine, leaving his wife and their two-year-old son.

But they weren't going to be that lucky with Regal, Peter knew. He was hurt, but not dead. Peter could hear his breathing—through his mouth, because apparently Neal had broken the bastard's nose. And Peter could see his chest rising and falling. All of which meant that, at some point, the man was going to wake up. Mind racing, Peter tried to think, to plan a strategy he could employ for when that inevitably happened. The possibilities were few and uninspiring, though if Neal were able to obtain the gun, that would at least be something.

He wondered how Neal would react if Peter told him to shoot Regal. He wondered if Neal would even be capable of doing it, without hurting himself.

Neal was still pushing himself along, sliding awkwardly across the floor a few inches at a time. But when Peter looked back at him, he'd gotten further than Peter had realized.

"Neal, you're getting close. You're doing great. The gun is a little bit behind you, so you're going to need to turn and then—"

Neal dutifully tried to do as Peter directed, but he turned the wrong way and as he wrenched his lower half around, his foot hit the gun and it slid across the smooth floor.

Away from Neal and under the shelves.

Peter exhaled and Neal turned his head sluggishly to see what had happened. "Where's—uh oh."

"It's okay, Neal." Reflexively, Peter looked back at Regal. _Still not moving._

"Can see it," Neal reported. "Slid under the shelves. See it, but can't—don' think I can get it. Too far . . . ."

No, Peter realized, that would be impossible for Neal to do with his arms tied. There wasn't much space between the floor and the bottom shelf—probably just enough for the gun to fit. It might have been a simple thing to reach an arm under there and grab it, but with Neal's arms secured behind him, there was no way he could manage it.

"If . . . if m' hands weren't . . ." Neal sighed.

"Yeah, I know. It's okay, Neal. You can't get it, but neither can he, and that's . . . the main thing. That's something."

"Mmm." Neal took in a shuddering breath, then twisted and squirmed, turning onto his side and finally managing to sit up, gasping in pain. He sat there for a moment, slumped over, eyes closed, and then muttered, "Now what?"

Good question, one Peter had had plenty of time to ponder during Neal's slow, arduous journey over to try to grab Regal's gun. _Not that they had many options . . . ._

"Do you have your phone?"

"Um . . ." Neal said, opening his eyes halfway and frowning. "No, I . . .I guess he has it. Or . . . trashed it. But he . . . he prolly has one. Could try to—"

"Yeah, he does," Peter said shortly. "But it's password-protected. Don't waste your time,"

A fleeting look of confusion passed over Neal's face at how definitive Peter was on this point, but he didn't question it. He glanced around, haphazardly, as if taking in his surroundings for the first time.

"'S too bad," Neal said, almost to himself, as he finally gazed up at Peter.

"What's too bad?"

"Too bad you're cuffed up there," Neal muttered. "Down here, I could pick'em."

"With your hands tied behind your back?"

"Uh, yeah," Neal said, in a weak imitation of his _do you really need to ask me that _voice. "I mean, I prob'ly could," he added. It was a rare—_and telling,_ Peter realized uneasily—admission from Neal that there was any limit to his capabilities. An admission that told Peter everything he needed to know about Neal's current state, none of it reassuring.

"Fine, fine. No lock you couldn't pick," Peter agreed. "But it's a moot point right now. So let's concentrate on something you _can_ do."

"Need a plan," Neal mumbled.

"Already got one," Peter shot back. "You leave and get help."

"If I could get . . . the gun. I could—could try to shoot off the anklet. Marshals'd come," Neal mused, as if Peter hadn't spoken. "Or . . . I could shoot the cuffs off you."

If Peter had had any doubt that Neal was concussed, well, that little soliloquy clinched it.

Trying and failing to keep the worry—not to mention the incredulity—out of his voice, Peter said, "You call that a plan?"

" 'M not such a bad shot," Neal said, a hint of pride evident.

"With your hands tied? _Shooting the anklet? _You'd blow your foot off, for God's sake. And look at me, Neal,"

Neal obeyed, slowly, careful to move just his head and not his body, toward Peter.

"How many of me do you see?" Peter demanded. "And _don't _lie to me."

"Never . . . lie to you," Neal said, sounding sulky. A few beats passed before he said, uncertainly, "Um . . . what'd you say?"

Peter exhaled and tried to stay patient, speaking slower this time. "How many of me do you see?"

Neal squinted at him. "Hmm. Maybe three? Or two an' a half? It's kinda blurry."

"Yeah, I wouldn't be liking those odds, no matter how much of a crack shot you are," Peter said bluntly.

"I think if I closed one eye . . ." Neal said as he experimented with it.

"Forget it, Neal. You can't get the gun, anyway, so—"

"Wait," Neal said, excited. "_You _carry a gun." He looked quite proud to have remembered this important fact.

"Yes, but he took it. It's gone."

Neal's face fell. "Oh. Right. I-I knew that. Forgot."

"Neal, we need—"

"A plan," Neal agreed, sighing. "So what—"

"I already told you," Peter interrupted, all patience gone. "It's very simple. You get up. Then you go and get help."

"But that—it's . . . I'd have to leave you here," Neal said, looking forlorn. His tone was one of childlike incomprehension. Utterly incredulous. Like he hadn't thought of it before, but now that he had, it was quite inconceivable.

Something twisted in Peter's gut at the emotion in Neal's voice, but he couldn't afford to encourage this stubborn, misguided loyalty (as touching as it was).

"You don't have any choice, Neal."

Neal didn't say anything at first. He blinked at Peter, as if trying to get his eyes to focus. From what Peter could tell from this far away, it had been a futile effort. Finally, Neal said, "Would _you_ do it?"

Peter sighed. "Neal, I'm a little limited right now—"

"N-no . . . I mean, if you were me and I was you . . . would you leave?"

The phrasing was a little muddled, far from Neal's usual articulate self, but Peter knew exactly what he meant.

_If their positions were reversed, would he leave Neal?_

"Absolutely, I would," Peter answered, putting every ounce of certainty and authority he had into his voice, because, right now, convincing Neal to get the hell out of here was the only thing that mattered.

"Don' think I believe you," Neal said, sounding a little petulant. "You'd leave me alone with someone who could . . . who could wake up and just . . . kill me?"

"_Yes!_" Peter exploded. "Because it beats the alternative of him waking up and killing _both of us_. Which, I hate to break it to you, is pretty much what's going to happen if you don't get your ass moving and find help." He was trying to stay calm, but his voice had risen in spite of himself.

"Geez, Peter, there's no need to yell," Neal said, wincing. He sighed. "You're right, though. He's gonna kill us, isn't he?"

"Well, not exactly," Peter admitted. This was no time to be coy. He might not get another chance. "_Me_, he's going to kill." _Unless he goes all in on the beatings-and-pliers plan, that is. _"_You_, he's going to cart off to turn into some sort of . . . personal . . . criminal plaything."

"Uh huh," Neal said, utterly unfazed, as if Peter had just told him the weather forecast called for rain, or something equally mundane. There was a _been there, done that_ quality to his comment that made Peter's skin crawl. Maybe it was just that Neal really had heard Regal's disturbingly creepy rants, earlier, or maybe it was just that he was out of it. Peter almost hoped so, because, if not, his first thought, right away, was of Vincent Adler, but now was not the time.

Peter couldn't imagine what a _good time _would be to have that kind of discussion. He only hoped they'd get the opportunity.

Sweat trickled down the middle of Peter's back. He took a deep breath, composed himself, and forced his voice back to an approximation of his normal calm-but-authoritative tone—the one Neal usually responded to.

"Neal, I appreciate your loyalty. I do. If our positions were reversed, I wouldn't want to leave you either. But I'd do it, because I'd have no choice. If you really want to help me, you have to go. And you have to do it _now_."

"All right, fine, but I still don' believe you," Neal huffed. "You'd think of something."

"I'm an FBI agent, not a magician," Peter told him. "Come on. Time to get up, Neal."

"I c'n do some magic," Neal said eagerly. He started to stir.

He could do magic, Peter knew. Legal and otherwise. But again, now was not the time.

"So do some magic, Neal," Peter challenged. "Disappear."

Neal grunted in response.

Getting to your feet is normally a simple thing. It's more challenging to do when your hands are restrained behind you, and it's a whole other magnitude of difficulty—not to mention pain—when you're also suffering from a possible concussion and a broken collarbone.

It almost hurt to watch Neal—yet again—work through the painful, laborious process of standing up. Peter watched, clenching his teeth at his own uselessness and Neal's obvious discomfort as he struggled for leverage.

Neal was still sitting up in the middle of the aisle; he bent his legs to try to get traction to slide himself back against the boxes. The smooth soles of his dress shoes weren't helping, and his progress was slow. With one last push, his back hit the boxes on the shelves behind him. Unable to see behind him, Neal hadn't been expecting it, and he couldn't stifle a cry of pain.

Frozen in place, Neal leaned back against the boxes, eyes closed, as Peter watched and waited, tense with foreboding. Again he looked nervously back at Regal, praying that he'd remain motionless.

For the moment he was, thank God. But Neal wasn't moving, either.

"Okay, that's good. But you need to stand up, now." _Come on, Neal. Keep going._

Neal pushed back, groaning, trying to use the boxes behind him as leverage. Peter could see his arms moving, grasping for some purchase. Slowly, so slowly, he was able to rise by keeping his back pressed against the boxes. Finally he managed to get his legs under him, even as he blinked furiously and swayed, dangerously unstable on his feet.

Peter realized, with a sinking feeling, that there was a very real possibility that Neal wasn't physically capable of going far. That all of his efforts to get Neal to understand the need to go, all of Neal's struggles up to this point, might amount to nothing. He pushed those thoughts away. Neal didn't need his negativity; what he needed from Peter was unconditional encouragement.

"Neal, that's good. I knew you could do it. Now, I want you to move slowly, okay? Take it easy. Come back toward me - you know the door's this way - but lean on the boxes. Use them for balance. Let them support you. You can do this."

Neal took one tottering step and then swore. A moment later he was turning to the side, groaning and retching at the same time.

Peter bit his lip and cursed his own impotence as Neal bent over and vomited up whatever had been in his stomach. It went on for what seemed like forever.

"Shit," Neal mumbled when he was finished. Still hunched over, he leaned his head against the boxes. "_God."_

"Give yourself a minute, Neal," Peter said, starting to feel panic rising inside him and knowing he had to fight it, not wanting Neal to pick up on it. _He's not going to be able to do this._ "Don't try to move yet. Just take some deep breaths, okay?"

"Deep . . . breaths hurt," Neal said in a low voice.

"Okay, not too deep, then," Peter amended.

"This blood," Neal muttered, disgusted. "Can't see." He bent his head down in an effort to wipe it off, but couldn't reach. He tried to shrug a shoulder up to swipe across his face and froze in agony before lowering his shoulder and breathing loudly through gritted teeth. "_Jesus_."

"Here, when you get here, you can wipe it off on my shirt."

Neal looked dismayed. "It'll ruin it."

"My shirt is not the priority right now, Neal. You are."

"Aw." Carefully, Neal began to move again, shuffling his way slowly toward Peter. Following Peter's suggestion, he stuck close to the shelves and let them support some of his weight. Peter, watching and worrying, noticed a dark red smear on the boxes where Neal had rested the side of his head.

As Neal staggered closer, his open shirt and loosened tie flapping in the air, Peter froze, noticing, for the first time, that there were fresh marks on Neal's chest. When Regal had unbuttoned Neal's shirt and stroked his skin, he hadn't been gentle, like Peter thought. He'd used his fingernail to dig into Neal's chest, to scratch three perfectly straight, perfectly parallel vertical lines. Like he'd started to make _goddamned tally marks_. The lines were red and angry-looking. _Regal had marked him. _The sight made Peter feel sick. And enraged all over again.

Peter took a few deep breaths to calm the fury bubbling up inside him. _Forget about it. They're just scratches. They'll go away. You need to focus on Neal, on helping him.  
_

Neal didn't notice Peter's disquiet; he was singularly focused on putting one foot in front of the other. He advanced to where Peter stood and bent his knees a little, awkwardly, so he could lean in and wipe his face back and forth across the front of Peter's shirt. Then he stood up and backed away, looking down at the red stains and groaning.

"Sorry, Peter, I—"

Peter was suddenly afraid, really afraid, that Neal didn't get this, didn't get the urgency. He had no idea how much Neal had heard—or remembered—of his conversation with Regal, of what Regal had done to him. But he feared that whatever Neal knew or remembered, it wasn't enough. His voice was sharp as he said, "Pay attention, Neal, this is important. Look at me."

"'Kay." Neal looked at him, obedient but alarmingly bleary-eyed. Up close, the patterns of blood and bruising on his face were grotesque.

"Regal called somebody. He's developed a very . . . unsettling personal interest in you. They're planning to drug you and kidnap you, and if you don't get out before Regal wakes up or his accomplices get here, you're in for a forced career as the newest trinket in his collection."

Neal didn't answer. Instead, he just stood there, staring. There was an empty, glassy quality to his eyes that was downright terrifying.

_Jesus, _Peter thought. Fear, cold and numbing, flowed through him. _ He doesn't understand. You have to make him understand. _

_His life depends on it. _

"Neal, listen to me. I don't think you realize how dangerous this man is. He wants to hurt you, Neal. He . . ." Peter took a deep breath. "He already has. Do you understand? You can't stay here. You have to go before it's too late."

A frown was Neal's only response.

_Come on, Neal. _Filled with dread, Peter tried again; he hated having to say this, but apparently it had to be done. "You said your . . . throat hurt, Neal. Do you know why?"

"Uh." Neal started to say something then hesitated. "N-no."

"I'll tell you why. It's because when you were unconscious, Regal grabbed you by the throat and choked you, Neal. Repeatedly. He—he almost suffocated you."

Now Neal was wide-eyed, keying in on Peter's horror, if nothing else. "He—he did? Why?"

"Because he is a twisted, goddamned fucking _sick _bastard who gets off on hurting people. On hurting _you,_ Neal," Peter snapped, all the vestiges of his self-control gone. "He wants to take you, and break you, and you _have got to get the hell out of here right now so he doesn't get the chance._"

When Neal didn't react, Peter said emphatically, "Neal. Did you hear what I said?"

"Mm-hm," Neal said, after a protracted silence.

"If you heard it, _then why are you still here?_"

"Goin', goin'," Neal grumbled. He blinked, two long, lazy blinks; they lasted so long that for one harrowing moment Peter was absolutely convinced Neal was going to pass out again. His heart raced as he willed Neal to stay with him. _No, Neal. You can't slip away. Not now._

Finally Neal opened his eyes, took a breath, and then began to move. With his second step, he stumbled clumsily, almost losing his balance. Peter inhaled sharply at the sight, letting out a sigh of relief when Neal righted himself, and began to drag himself down the aisle, past Peter. "Get help," Neal murmured as he went by. "Back soon."

"That's good. I know you will. Be careful, Neal." Peter said. He'd forced himself to sound calm again, confident again, but his mind was thinking, _Jesus Christ, he's never going to make it._

Peter watched him go and said a silent prayer that it wasn't the last time he'd see him.

_TBC ….._

* * *

_A/N - A big thank-you to all reviewers! I cherish each and every comment and am gratified to know that you are looking forward to more. Thanks again….more coming soon! (Trying to stop obsessing so much so these chapters can get posted faster.)_


	7. Only What You Allow

**Critical Hour **

**Chapter 7 – Only What You Allow **

"_**Pain is only what you allow it to be."**_  
― Cassandra Clare, _City of Ashes _

* * *

Using the shelves for support, Neal shuffled along, back down the row and toward the door where he and Peter had entered the warehouse. There might be other exits, maybe closer ones, but he didn't know if there were—or where they were—and he couldn't afford to spend time or energy on fruitless searches.

_Hurry._

Even the smallest movement hurt like hell, and walking hurt even more. The only good thing about it—well, not _good_, exactly—was that at least being up and mobile had made him feel more awake, sharper. His brain didn't feel nearly as muddled as when he'd first come to. Hell, when he was able to push the pain away, he felt capable of actual thought again.

_Keep going. _

He didn't look back at Peter. The movement needed to twist his body hurt too much, and if he saw Peter again, he'd only feel more guilt and frustration at leaving him there. At the end of the row, he did stop for a moment to take a semi-deep breath before stepping out, away from the shelves, aiming for the outside wall that ran perpendicular to the rows of shelves. He could almost feel Peter's eyes on his back, watching him as he moved away.

_Outside. You need to get outside._

While getting up and moving around had the welcome effect of making him feel more aware, it also had the unwelcome effect of sharpening the pain. Every movement heightened the agony. He seemed to hurt . . . everywhere. Thanks to Peter, he now knew why he hurt in other places besides the obvious ones, like his head and his shoulder. His neck hurt because the bastard had _choked _him. _And Regal must have hit you in the ribs, too._ Neal had had bruised ribs before and he recognized that sharp, piercing pain when he moved, when he breathed.

He was still trying to get his brain to grasp what Peter had said—and how he'd said it. Neal wondered dimly what else had happened to scare Peter that badly. He had some shadowy impressions, but nothing concrete. A big chunk was missing from his memory.

_And maybe that's not so bad_, he thought, grimacing at much it hurt just to swallow—and at the memory of Peter, looking stricken as he described what Regal had done. All things considered, Neal was just as glad to have been unconscious for that part. It was unnerving, though, to hurt this badly and not remember _why _he was hurting. Neal had never experienced that before and it was . . . he struggled to think of a word. What had Peter said? _Unsettling._ Yeah, that fit.

As was the realization that, whatever Regal had done, Peter had been forced to watch it. _All of it._

The thought made him shudder.

Generally speaking, Neal thought, privately, that Peter worried too much (about Neal, anyway). He kept this opinion to himself, for the most part, because Peter didn't take well to Neal telling him what he should be thinking or feeling. Especially when the matter at issue was related to Peter's job or Neal's safety.

So Neal kept quiet about it, but he'd always felt that Peter went a bit . . . overboard. It wasn't that Neal didn't appreciate it; Peter's concern could be heart-warming. Neal was used to being on his own, more or less. With a few notable exceptions, having someone who cared about what happened to him the way Peter did, without any truly selfish motives, was a novelty. A refreshing novelty.

And Peter wasn't obnoxious about it, either. He wasn't the type to mother-hen Neal every second. But even when Peter refrained from voicing anything (probably because he knew Neal would just tell him to relax, that he'd done this countless times before), the tell-tale signs of anxiety were easy to spot in Peter: the way he'd fidget, the tension in his shoulders, a certain grim set to his mouth, _that _look in his eyes.

Neal always felt bad when he saw those indicators, usually right before Peter sent him undercover. Worrying was a waste of energy and time, and it was kind of a shame that Peter couldn't help doing it. What was the point? You prepared as best you could—on that, Peter and Neal agreed completely—you trusted your abilities, and you did what you had to do. Then, if things went wrong, as they so often did, you figured out what to do on the fly. You got to use your brain and your skills to come up with solutions. Neal had complete confidence in his ability to handle whatever was thrown at him, and he was pretty sure that Peter was confident in him, too.

But Peter worried anyway.

Neal would never say it to Peter, but secretly he sometimes thought that when things went wrong was the fun part. Peter wouldn't agree, of course. Peter hated when things didn't go according to plan. When _Neal _didn't go according to plan.

Like today. Nothing had gone according to plan, Neal was in danger, and Peter was responding predictably. Except that this time, his reaction was totally off the charts.

Neal had never seen Peter that freaked out before, and that in itself was definitely alarming. _Well, you'd be freaked out, too, if somebody was choking Peter right in front of you_.

And given the other mysterious pain Neal was feeling, Regal had done . . . other things to him, as well, while he was unconscious. Yet, as disturbing as all of that was, right now, Neal was more worried about Peter than himself. Peter had said, quite plainly, that Regal's plan was to take Neal, whereas Regal would have much less need for Peter—

_Instead of killing you now, I take you captive. _

Neal froze for an instant. That was Regal's voice that he was hearing in his head.

Talking to _Peter._

_If I had you, I might be able to control Neal much more easily._

Closing his eyes for a moment, Neal tried to concentrate, ignoring the little chill running down his spine. Was that right? Had Regal really said that, really talked about kidnapping Peter as well? But Peter hadn't mentioned it. Neal's mind was so foggy, his sense of time and reality so untrustworthy, that he couldn't be sure.

No, he couldn't rely on his memory right now. He had to go by what Peter had told him: _Regal plans to kidnap you and kill me. _Which meant, in Neal's practical, triage-like assessment of the threats they faced, that Peter was the one in the greatest immediate danger. Regal had no interest in killing Neal. Therefore, _Peter _was the one they needed to worry about.

Clearly Regal was violent and creepy and . . . scary. He'd scared the hell out of Peter, so much so that Peter hadn't even tried to hide it—and that alone was enough to scare the hell out of Neal. But Neal had been successfully taking care of himself for a very long time. He'd extricated himself from plenty of tight spots and unsavory characters and come through mostly unscathed. Really, the only person who'd ever been able to get around him with any success was Peter Burke. If it came down to it, Neal would take his chances that he could handle himself with Regal.

After all, Regal had future plans for Neal (disturbing as they might be). His plan for Peter, on the other hand, likely involved no future, only an imminent end, and perhaps not a slow one. _That _was the part that worried Neal above all else.

_That _was why he had to get help, as fast as he could manage it.

Two steps and Neal had made it to the opposite wall. His right shoulder hit the concrete and he winced, bracing himself against the wall and gasping to ride out a wave of stabbing pain. It felt like the movement jarred every bone. Something was probably broken in there, but it didn't help to wonder about it now.

_You need to stop running into things, _he scolded himself._ Be more careful._

He let himself stay there and just breathe. Shallowly, because deep breaths hurt like a bitch. Overall, he told himself, this was not so bad. He'd made it this far, he was still upright, and he could follow this wall, lean against it, and use it to help support him all the way out to the door where they'd entered.

As Neal began moving again, though, he immediately realized just how slowly he had to go. His balance was off, his surroundings seemed to tilt crazily without warning, and with no way to hold on to anything, Neal was terrified of falling. He didn't want to think about how much that would that would hurt—and how much more it would hurt to try to get up again. Truthfully, if he fell, he wasn't sure he could get up this time.

_No, you would. Because of Peter. But it's better if you don't have to._

The pain made it hard to think, hard to focus on what he had to do. He tried to push it aside and compartmentalize it away into a remote corner of his mind. It was something he'd trained himself to do in similar situations over the years, when he'd been in the middle of a job and suffered some injury. You didn't allow yourself to think about it; you concentrated on the task at hand and made the pain secondary.

So Neal thought only about walking—well, really what he was doing was closer to _staggering_—but it was movement, it was progress, so that was good. He was doing what Peter had told him to do, what Peter needed him to do. He just had to keep going and not let his mind wander to anything beyond that.

A few more feet, and there was a door. Not the door that led outside—not yet—but a door that led, presumably to a room. He stared at it for a moment and then twisted his body, blinking at the pain, so he could bring his bound hands to the doorknob. His fingers were numb, and the wire—or whatever it was—binding his wrists bit into the flesh as he strained. Neal swore quietly and lifted his hands to turn the knob.

_Locked_.

Well, an open door probably would have been too much to hope for. He was reminded of a favorite quote of Mozzie's—_luck always seems like it belongs to someone else. _

It certainly seemed to apply today . . . .

Behind the locked door might be an office, and salvation might be in there: in the form of a phone—or something he could use to snip these damn restraints. Under normal circumstances he would have had the cheap-looking door lock picked in seconds, but he had no tools, nothing he could use.

Well, not quite. He did have tools. But his picks were in his inside jacket pocket and completely inaccessible. He might as well have left them back at the office for all the good they'd do him now.

There was nothing for it; he'd have to keep going.

Again Neal worked his way down the hallway, keeping his shoulder to the wall so he didn't have to support all of his own weight.

Finally he'd come to the end of the shelves. He had to make a right turn, still following the wall. The corridor that led to the exit started here, so there was a wall across from him, now. He stopped to catch his breath and then saw another door.

This one was across the hallway, though, on the other side. He'd have to leave his security blanket, the wall he was currently leaning on, to get to it.

Worth a try, he decided. He stepped out, away from the wall, but realized right away that he'd moved too quickly. Vertigo hit and the world listed wildly, like he was stuck in the middle of a carnival ride gone horribly wrong.

Neal felt himself falling. His only conscious thought was that he had to reach that other wall before he hit the floor. A fall would be devastating.

The corridor was wide - _t__oo wide,_ he thought desperately. _ I'm not going to make it._

it was a near thing. He lurched forward for the wall—of course, he couldn't use his hands to brace himself—and slammed into it face-first, barely in time to keep from hitting the ground.

He just had the presence of mind to turn his head so his nose and forehead—already in bad shape—didn't take the full force of the impact. He heard himself cry out.

_Well, Jesus. That hurt like hell._

He levered himself up the wall and stood there, temple pressed against the rough concrete. His head felt like it was about to explode with even the slightest movement, his shoulder was afire with pain, but the coolness of the concrete felt good. Neal let himself enjoy the sensation for a moment, but only a moment. Staying there was not an option. With every second, his energy was fading. He knew that he was dangerously close to passing out, and he couldn't allow that to happen. Peter was counting on him.

He'd almost forgotten about the door.

This time, he carefully turned his whole body to allow his hands to find the doorknob.

When the knob turned, he felt a surge of hope that almost made him forget the agony in his shoulder.

He bumped the door open further with his bound hands—_shit, that hurt, too—_and slowly turned to look into the room.

Neal's heart sank. No office, no phone, no help. Just a dark, tiny storeroom filled with more shelves and more boxes. He wondered, automatically, because he was Neal Caffrey, just how much of the contents were stolen as he stumbled back out into the hallway and made it to the other wall again. He leaned back against it, staring into the room he'd just looked in. There was a red mark on the wall next to the door, from where his head had slammed into it; more warm, wet blood was streaming down the side of his face, he realized.

He pondered whether that was from a new head wound, or just an aggravation of the old one.

He resumed his awkward progress down the corridor. _Forget this_, he thought. He needed to get outside. He could spend all day exploring every room in this place and end up with nothing. No, what he needed was someone to see him, someone to help him, and for that he needed to get out of this goddamned building.

Neal kept going, mechanically, toward the door he and Peter had entered through—_what? An hour ago? _It felt like he'd been in this warehouse forever, but his memory was too fuzzy to estimate time. He guessed it was just a few minutes, but he had no way of knowing. He didn't wear a watch—not that he could have seen it even if he had one—and his phone was gone.

It wasn't possible, but it sure seemed like this corridor had magically doubled in length since he and Peter had first walked down it. Then again, distances probably always felt longer when you were stumbling along semi-conscious with a head injury and a broken shoulder and God-knew what other injuries.

He continued to slog along until finally, _finally, _he saw the exterior door up ahead. Neal almost cried with relief. It took everything he had to resist that first, powerful instinct to just run to it, reminding himself that any such attempt would end with him flat on the floor. So he kept moving carefully, still sliding along the wall for the last few feet.

When he finally reached the door, he turned his back to it, maneuvering to open it with nerveless fingers. Neal pushed the door open with his bound hands and stepped sideways through the doorway.

_Not only sideways, but down. He'd forgotten. Shit, there was a step down to get to the sidewalk._

_A big fucking step and he wasn't ready for it._

Immediately, he started to fall.

* * *

Time seemed to be standing still.

Peter hated clichés, and the idea of time standing still was one of the most overused clichés ever. But he had to admit: it certainly fit. It felt like time had frozen in place, just the same way _he_ was frozen in place.

Using the sleeve of his suit jacket, Peter wiped the sweat from his forehead for what had to be the fourth or fifth time—he'd lost count. The heat was starting to get to him. Strange that despite all of it—the adrenaline rush of being restrained and held at gunpoint, the heart-pounding terror he felt for Neal—now he was actually tired. His whole body felt suffused with fatigue as the adrenaline faded and the numb reality of waiting began to sink in. If he hadn't been cuffed to the shelves and forced to stand, he might actually collapse. His legs were ridiculously weak.

His neck and shoulders felt as if they were on fire, but his hands had gone from hurting to tingling. He knew they'd go numb eventually, which was better than pain, Except that if he was freed—_when you're freed_, his mind chided him—he'd be in some serious agony when the blood flow started again.

And if he wasn't freed . . . well, then he wouldn't have to worry about much of anything.

He couldn't quite see his watch. It felt like he'd been in this position for hours, but he knew that it had only been minutes—he wasn't sure how many. He'd counted, at first, after Neal had left, but couldn't stay focused beyond the first few.

Sometimes Peter closed his eyes and rested his head on his arms, but he was too jumpy to stay that way for long. He had to keep checking Regal, almost obsessively, expecting every time he looked to see the man regaining consciousness.

The good news was that, so far, Regal hadn't even twitched.

For lack of anything better to do (besides worry), he ran through scenarios of what could happen.

The best-case scenario: Neal makes it outside, finds help in time. (Peter didn't want to acknowledge to himself how hard that would be for Neal, who was seriously injured, who had his hands bound behind his back . . .). No, in this, the best-case scenario, the cavalry arrives in the form of Diana and Jones and everyone lives happily ever after, except for Regal, who heads off to prison.

The worst of all worst-case scenarios: Regal wakes up. He kills you and takes Neal away.

_Or he takes both of you, like he said._

With some time to think it over, Peter thought the latter was unlikely. All that talk about taking Peter and using him to force Neal to cooperate . . . Peter wasn't buying it. It was too complicated by half, it truly _would_ turn the pursuit of Regal into the manhunt to end all manhunts, and most of all, it wasn't logical. Regal actually did seem to think that Neal was chafing to get away from the FBI. If that were really true, then hurting Peter wouldn't have the desired effect. Because if Neal was just looking to escape Peter's clutches, why would he care what Regal did to him?

No, Peter decided, that threat was just Regal being a cruel, savage son-of-a-bitch. Tormenting Peter because he enjoyed it. It was a giant mind-fuck. Like . . . his threats against Elizabeth.

Or at least, that was what Peter kept telling himself.

Okay, so . . . other scenarios. Maybe Neal manages to get to safety, but Regal still shoots you. Well, that would be better than the _worst-worst-case . . . ._

_Except_, he reminded himself, _Regal can't shoot you._ He threw your gun away and Neal had inadvertently pushed Regal's under the shelves. Regal wouldn't know it was there.

_All right, so he won't shoot you. But he'll still kill you. _

Because you didn't have to be a criminal mastermind to come up with ways to kill someone if no firearm was handy. You just had to be willing to get your hands dirty. You just had to have the stomach for it. And Peter now knew one thing about Jameson Regal. Under that slick European suit by some designer Peter would never in a million years have been able to pronounce (but Neal undoubtedly would have—in zero-point-five seconds), beat the heart of a sadist who would have little compunction about doing anything.

Regal seemed the type who'd want to want to play with his victims before dispatching them. He'd want to savor it—and would probably relish the opportunity to concoct some creative method of homicide. God knew, there were plenty of ways to commit murder without a gun. You could beat someone to death, or stab them. You could strangle them; _Regal seemed to have a thing for that,_ Peter thought grimly. You could shove a plastic bag on their head, pull it tight, and just wait for them to asphyxiate. You could—

_Okay, this is not a productive line of thinking,_ Peter told himself. _Focus on something else._

Positive thoughts were hard to come by at the moment, though. Like a rat in a maze, his mind kept running into the same walls, circling the same paths, and none of them led anywhere but to the same unnerving conclusions.

_Neal wouldn't make it. Neither of them would. The odds were stacked dramatically against them surviving—_

_Stop it. _

He'd been staring straight ahead. Staring at his arms, staring at the brown cardboard boxes a few inches away from his face. God, he was so sick of looking at them. In an attempt to ease the strain on his neck, he let his head fall back and his eyes drift shut. It didn't help. After a few seconds, Peter exhaled, brought his head up, and opened his eyes. He was about to rest his head on his arms again, when, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something.

His blood turned to ice.

Quickly, he snapped his head to the left, his neck protesting as he turned sharply back to look. He could feel the pounding of his heart.

_Had Regal just moved?_

_TBC…._

_A/N – I continue to be overwhelmed by all of you interested in this story, and particularly the wonderful reviews many of you have sent along. May not have thanked everyone personally, so please know how much I appreciate it._

_In response to some reviewers' comments, please let me clarify something regarding story status. This story __**is **__finished, in the sense that there is a beginning, a middle, and an end, with lots of chapters in between and every one of them written. There are no missing pieces. However, this story is not quite a fait accompli, either. I wrote it some time ago and then made some changes. As I re-read each chapter before posting, I am having to do some revisions to make it work from a consistency standpoint._

_I only say this because I would hate for anyone to think that the entire story is a completed work product, absolutely finalized and letter-perfect, and that I am just parceling it out piece-by-piece, making people wait for no good reason, simply because I can. That, I would never do. It's just that I have some manicuring to do on each chapter before I post it; I promise I am doing that as quickly as I can._

_Thanks for your patience and understanding—and for all of the reviews!_


	8. Just Scream

**Critical Hour**

**Chapter 8 – Just Scream**

"_**When you're drowning, you don't say 'I would be incredibly pleased if someone would have the foresight to notice me drowning and come and help me.' You just scream."  
**_―John Lennon

* * *

The excitement of finally reaching the door to the outside, with its hope of escape, of finding someone who could help him, was almost overwhelming. It had almost made Neal forget, temporarily, how much he was hurting.

It certainly had made him forget that there was a big step down right outside the door; the sidewalk was a good six inches below the threshold.

So when he pushed open the door (thankfully, not locked) and stepped outside, Neal wasn't prepared for there to be no ground below his feet, where he'd expected it to be. Instead, he stepped into space, losing his balance and falling. _Shit, he was going down._

_But goddamnit, he hadn't come this far to end up unconscious right outside the door, with freedom at hand_.

Neal leaned, trying to direct himself to the right, backward as he fell. _The door_, he thought frantically. _That's it. _He needed to grab the door, the door which was swinging out and was now behind him as he tried to turn his body. It was his only hope of staying upright; there was nothing else to hold onto, and he had to, _he had to hold on to something or he was done for_.

He lurched backward desperately, with all the strength he could manage, dimly aware of the risk he was taking. If he couldn't get a grip on the door, he'd end up slamming into the concrete, and the back of his head would take the full force of the impact. Most likely, he'd end up out cold.

But somehow, miraculously, his bound hands brushed the metal of the door as it swung backwards. Neal reached back and up for the handle, flailing behind him. For one long nightmarish second, he was sure he wouldn't make it.

He'd never in his life been so happy to be wrong. First one hand and then the other found the long metal handle of the door, and he grabbed on as tightly as he could, fighting as gravity kept pulling him down. Neal heard himself cry out, unable to stop it. Agony screamed through his wrists and his shoulders; they were taking the bulk of his weight, wrenched up behind him while he hung on for dear life, struggling to get his feet under him as the door swung out and he fell off the step. When he touched ground, he came down awkwardly on his left ankle, twisting it and grimacing at the searing white-hot pain of it as he bent his knees and tried to right himself.

Feet finally underneath him, he slowly straightened his legs, still hanging on to the door handle. Mainly because he was afraid to let go, even though it felt as if muscles and ligaments in his arms and shoulders were actually tearing. Neal closed his eyes, panting through the pain that seemed now to be pulsing through every cell in his body. Initially he waited for the pain to subside; in fact, he wasted more than a few precious seconds before it dawned on him that it probably wasn't going to.

Which meant he had to get moving. Right away. Once he was sure he was reasonably steady, he let go of the door and took a step.

He bit his lip at the pain in his left ankle. _Great. You sprained it or broke it, or something. Clumsy._

Neal shook his head. _Don't think about it. _He was in the home stretch, now. Well, actually, he had a ways to go, because this door was in the back of the warehouse and any people, any help, would be around the front . . . but Neal was an optimistic sort who preferred to focus on how far he'd come—instead of how far he had yet to go.

So he had to get himself to the front of the warehouse, out to the street and—then what?

_Seek out the kindness of strangers, that's what._

He opened his eyes and gulped in fresh air that felt so good after the staleness of the warehouse. It helped clear his head a little as he began to move again, heading to his right and hugging the wall of the building as best he could, retracing his and Peter's steps. The sun beat down, unbearably hot, and yet somehow he was shivering, tremors shaking his body and adding to the pain that was already everywhere. Sweat and blood ran into his eyes, burning unpleasantly and clouding his blurry vision, but there was really no way to wipe it off, so he just tried to blink it away.

Off in the distance, he could hear what sounded like a car. Or some kind of vehicle. It gave him renewed hope. _Help is out there, Caffrey. If you can just get there. _

Neal tried to move faster, focusing once more on pushing the jolts of pain away, off to the side. He kept limping along the back wall, with a dogged determination that was, he realized, actually very Peter-Burke-like. Peter was rubbing off on him, there was no denying it. He could pretend otherwise, but that would be lying to himself. And lying wasn't nearly as fun when you were doing it to yourself instead of to a mark.

Not so long ago, the thought that he was taking on traits—_any traits —_of Peter's would have alarming in the extreme. (Except for Peter's intelligence, but Neal had never lacked for intellect, thank you very much). But now . . . now the realization that he was becoming more like Peter was—well, not, at least, a _terrible_ thing.

For his part, one thing Neal had learned in his line of work was that big jobs had to be broken down into manageable parts, and you concentrated on one part at a time. Applying that principle in this situation meant that step one of this job was getting to the end of this particular wall, to the corner of the warehouse. So for the moment, that had to be his sole focus.

No, he considered, that wasn't quite right. _Give yourself some credit. _Step one had been coming to his senses and putting Regal out of commission. Step two had been getting out of the warehouse. So, really, he thought with false cheer, that meant he was already all the way up to step three. _Look how far you've come!_

He wasn't fooling himself, though. The fact was, he still had a hell of a long way to go before he really accomplished anything meaningful. Step three: getting to the end of the warehouse. Step four: turning the corner and getting out to the street. Step five: getting help. Step six: getting back to Peter before Regal came to _his_ senses and did the unthinkable.

_Well, hell. _When you looked at it that way, he wasn't even halfway there yet.

When Neal reached the corner of the warehouse, it was a milestone—the successful conclusion of step three—and he allowed himself to rest for a few seconds to savor it. He closed his eyes against the too-bright sun and leaned against the concrete wall, taking stock and catching his breath. He'd traveled about thirty yards, a significant distance given his current physical limitations. Problem was, Neal knew, he'd have to go probably another forty or so yards to complete step four—that was, to reach the street. And step four was going to be a long, hard slog, even though he was setting the fastest pace he could. Because that pace was, unfortunately, still excruciatingly slow.

Reveling in the completion of step three had been a nice idea in theory, but now he worried that stopping had been a mistake. When he wasn't concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, the throbbing in his head, his shoulders, his wrists, and everywhere else, became harder to ignore. Neal had thought he was bad off before his graceless fall out the warehouse door. But at least then he hadn't had to deal with stabbing pain in his ankle—now he did, and it seemed to get worse with each step.

_Stop thinking about it. It's not helping. Get moving_, a voice in his mind said sternly. The voice sounded suspiciously like Peter's, which was really kind of disturbing. Hearing voices in one's head was bad enough, but that it was _Peter's voice_—well, that took it to a whole other level. As if he didn't already put up with enough yammering from Peter; now he had to worry about some kind of weird mind-invasion, for God's sake.

Of course, if he were being honest (not the most common of occurrences), he'd have to say that, just now, hearing Peter's voice _was_ helpful. First, because the Peter-voice was right (he had to grudgingly concede it). And second, it helped remind him just why he was putting himself through this misery.

Because Peter needed him. Peter was counting on him. And Peter was worth it.

It was time, then, to get started on step four—the journey to the front of the warehouse. He staggered around the corner of the building and was rewarded by the sight of the street up ahead—blurry and indistinct, but definitely there. Yes, the distance between him and it was depressing, but step four really _was_ the home stretch, now (not like before when he'd been lying to himself).

Or, at least, that's what he tried to make himself believe. Neal was a con artist, after all—he was an expert at making people believe things. But conning yourself was a whole different challenge.

* * *

Peter's heart didn't stop, but it felt as if it were stuttering in his chest, like it just _might_ stop at any moment. He was almost sure he'd seen Regal move and _shit, this was the worst-case scenario coming to life in front of his eyes and there wasn't a goddamned thing he could do about it and, please, God, let Neal get away, at least, let him have gotten outside and found someone to help him—_

Peter stared at Regal as if by look alone he could will the man still. Long seconds passed before Peter let out a sigh of relief. No, Regal wasn't moving. Maybe he _had _been moving; Peter wasn't sure now if he'd seen it or if his eyes were just playing tricks on him—but he wasn't doing so now, thank God. Other than the rising and falling of his chest which indicated he was (unfortunately) still alive, Regal was motionless.

Sweat was running into his eyes, burning painfully. Peter blinked and wiped his forehead again.

It all came down to Neal now. Everything depended on him. Either Neal would make it or he wouldn't.

And if he didn't, well then, by extension, _they_ wouldn't.

_But Neal has a way of getting things done—never more so than when you think he can't._

…_..._

Peter had learned a lot about Neal, in those first few months of working with him. Well, in some ways, it wasn't so much _learning _as _confirming _things he'd already suspected about Neal, after years of chasing him, studying him, interacting with him occasionally (because Neal couldn't seem to resist doing so).

So what had he learned?

_Neal was smart. _

True, Peter had known that. He'd have caught Neal a hell of a lot sooner otherwise. But Neal had a much broader base of knowledge than Peter had imagined—for someone who presumably didn't have much formal education. And he absorbed things amazingly quickly, so that what he didn't already know, he could almost immediately understand—if he cared enough to. Mundane cases and ordinary criminals bored Neal, which meant Peter was constantly on the prowl for something unusual to keep his CI interested.

_Neal held back._

Sometimes consciously, sometimes automatically, because it was innate with him. A defense mechanism, Peter assumed, with roots that probably went way back to aspects of Neal's past that Peter could only guess about. That was a challenge, because Peter had never worked with anyone before that he couldn't trust. Well, that wasn't quite true. Over the years, he'd worked with some agents—and some CIs—whose competence he'd questioned, who needed close supervision because he didn't trust them to handle things on their own. But Neal was different. It wasn't his capability that Peter questioned—quite the opposite. Neal was ultra-competent. It was his motives, his agenda, that Peter had come to realize he could never be quite sure of.

He thought of the case with the bible, Neal somehow arranging for the damn book to disappear after the takedown of Maria was complete.

Or the Haustenberg case—Neal making sure that Peter was occupied so he could steal the painting from Brigitte's hotel room.

Or the case with the Chinese money launderer. Neal spending a night with an Interpol operative—making a deal with her even as he concealed her identity from Peter.

Or the arrangement he'd made with Alex to steal the music box. Or the deal Neal had secretly cut with Fowler . . . .

In every case, it was Neal, ostensibly working with Peter, but also operating according to his own hidden agenda_. _Forcing Peter to remain on his guard, to constantly ferret out what Neal was doing behind the scenes.

Compounding the problem was that Peter had never been personally entangled with anyone he'd supervised quite the way he was with Neal. In this, as in so many other things, Neal was _sui generis. _During his time at the FBI, Peter had worked with various confidential informants, and even developed close relationships with a few of them, over a period of years. But not once had any of them ever been in Peter's house. Yet there was Neal, making himself at home on Peter's couch _on his second day out of prison_.

Until Neal, Peter had never let a CI walk his dog. Until Neal, he'd never let a CI help to plan his anniversary—the very idea would have been unthinkable. In all his years at the bureau, Elizabeth had never even met one of his CIs—until Neal. Now she had no qualms about inviting him over for a meal.

It made it easy, so easy to let your guard down, that kind of familiarity. And yet letting his guard down was the one thing he'd learned he couldn't do with Neal, because bad things tended to come of it.

_Sure, Neal holds back. But it's not like you haven't held back too, _a small, accusing voice said inside his head.

_Only because Neal did it first, _his rational side responded.

Those first few months had been a hesitant, back-and-forth dance between them, while they'd tried to figure out just how _(if?) _this consulting thing was going to work. Peter had really wanted it to. First, because fundamentally he liked Neal, and, second, because he knew Neal could be useful. Neal had committed another crime by escaping, and, as such, should do the time—but _God_, what a waste it would be for him to rot away in prison for four more years.

_(That was assuming there was a prison that could hold him for four more years—a big assumption, under the circumstances.)_

So the early days had been all about Peter assessing how best to use Neal, to keep him interested, ideally to show him how to use his skills legally, even while he tried to decide how much rope to give him (because he'd had the uneasy feeling that tightening the leash too much would only give Neal incentive to slip it). And no matter what anyone said about skip-free anklets, Peter had no doubt Neal could run if he wanted to. The man had shown an incredible talent for disappearing.

Despite the ups and downs, they'd been making progress in those early days. Then Fowler—_that bastard_—had had Neal arrested. The fact that he'd used Peter's knowledge of Neal to put an incriminating signature on the pink diamond had only made it worse. Peter had been furious—not only with Fowler, but also, later, with himself. Because despite Neal's pleas for Peter to believe him, Peter hadn't. And he'd been dead wrong.

Yet Neal, after escaping as only he could—_jumping out of a goddamned window and practically giving Peter a heart attack_—hadn't run. He'd had enough faith in Peter (and Elizabeth, of course) to come to their house and present what evidence he had. He'd trusted that Peter would hear him out, give him a chance. And Peter had.

Peter had thought, after that, that they'd reached a new level of trust. They'd both believed in each other, ultimately, during the mess with Fowler, and taken risks to do so. And yet it didn't take long for trust issues to arise between them again—on Neal's side, this time—on their very next investigation.

That was the boiler room case, when Neal had nearly blown everything, with Avery and his goddamned shotgun _right there_, because he believed that Peter was working against him. That Peter had Kate. For Neal, at that moment in his life, Peter knew there could be no worse betrayal.

He'd been able to convince Neal that it wasn't true (with El's help). Shoring up a breach he hadn't even realized existed, hoping he'd done enough even as he knew, uneasily, that he _was _keeping a secret from Neal about Kate. One he'd shared as soon as it was practicable, when the case was over. Because, God knew, Neal deserved some honesty after the vault, when he'd placed complete trust in Peter and risked his own life in the process.

When it was all over, though, Peter had had to sit him down for a heart-to-heart about Neal's absurd suspicion of Peter.

* * *

"I still don't understand how you could have believed that. How you _ever_ could have believed that I had Kate. You're smarter than that. It's just . . ." Peter shook his head. "It's crazy, Neal."

Neal appeared to be mildly embarrassed. At least Peter _thought_ Neal was embarrassed; he'd rarely seen that particular emotion on Neal's face, so he didn't want to jump to any hasty conclusions.

"I told you," Neal said finally, glancing at Peter and then away. _Yup, there's the tell. Definitely embarrassed_, Peter decided.

_As well he should be, dammit._

Peter gazed steadily at him. "No, you didn't tell me. Not really."

Trying to explain the inexplicable, Neal soldiered on. "Well, we knew it was someone in the FBI," he said, now looking downright diffident.

_We, _Peter thought, sighing inwardly. _Mozzie, no doubt._

"And you're smart enough to have pulled it off," Neal added quickly.

"Gee, thanks. I think," Peter answered, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. He knew Neal meant it as a compliment—except that being called duplicitous wasn't something Peter would pride himself on.

_Unlike Neal, of course, who would probably consider that the highest form of praise he could ever receive._

Neal wasn't done with his explanation. "Fowler implied that it wasn't him—it was you."

Peter groaned in exasperation. "But why would you believe that? Neal, he framed you. He put you back in prison, for God's sake."

"And Kate, too," Neal admitted, not really responding to the question. "She said it was someone close to me. She said I couldn't trust anyone."

"Kate." _Kate, that fountain of knowledge, that paragon of trustworthiness. Figures, _Peter thought, sighing inwardly again. _I might have guessed. _Then, belatedly, what Neal had said registered in Peter's brain. "Wait, you _talked_ to her? When?"

Now, if Peter wasn't mistaken, Neal actually looked not merely embarrassed, but _guilty. _"She . . . uh, she called me. The night we were drinking champagne in the office to celebrate my return. Remember?"

Peter did. He remembered that night vividly, in fact. The relief at having Neal back, at having regained his trust. Neal pretending to complain: _you shouldn't drink champagne out of paper, _he'd mock-scolded. But the surprised smile on his face, the quiet happiness about being welcomed back—_those_ had been genuine. Peter could tell.

Then Neal had been called to the phone. _That's probably my lawyer, _he'd joked as he left to take the call.

_Apparently, it hadn't been his lawyer._

"It was—" Neal halted, and the pause was just a shade too long before he resumed. "It was the last time I ever . . . heard her voice. Except . . . ." He trailed off, swallowing hard as he looked out the window, into the darkness.

_Except for the flight data recording. When Neal had heard Kate's last words, followed by the sound of Kate being blown to bits. Oh, Christ. _

Peter hastily bit back the Kate-related remark that had popped into his head—one which would have been tactless at best and callous at worst. Instead he nodded sympathetically and shifted the conversation. "Then you saw the ring in the photo of El and me. At our house."

Neal nodded back, at least having the grace to look uncomfortable at Peter's last words.

The night when Neal had first met Avery—now, Peter viewed _that_ in a whole new light, too, beginning with Neal's counter when Peter had suggested going to the office.

_I'm in your neighborhood, why don't we meet at your place? _

_My place? _That had surprised Peter.

_Yeah, it's a little late for the plain bureau walls, _Neal had said. _Besides, you have better coffee. _

It had seemed eminently logical at the time, given the lateness of the hour—and quite off-the-cuff—but later Peter had realized it had been anything but casual, anything but innocent. No, it had been deliberate and coldly calculating.

_And, _Peter thought, _especially diabolical to play on my weakness by throwing in the bit about the coffee . . . ._

Now, he knew: Neal's true purpose had been to get into his house to look for that damned ring. Peter wondered how far Neal would have gone to find it, if he hadn't spotted the picture on the stairs. Would he really have ransacked their bedroom looking for it?

_Of course he would have, _Peter thought glumly. _Except that he'd do it so stealthily that you'd never have known he was there._

That didn't make him feel any better.

It had been a useful lesson in what motivated Neal. Around that time, Elizabeth had said there was only one reason for Neal to lie to him—and that reason was Kate. Peter thought she was being a bit too generous to Neal, given his history, but there was no doubt that Neal had a tendency to act irrationally where his girlfriend was concerned.

Peter hadn't ever quite trusted Kate. And the more Neal mooned over her, the more he danced as she pulled the strings, the less Peter liked her. Their meeting confirmed every suspicion he'd ever had—and then some. Peter wasn't much of a romantic, but he was a damn good judge of people, and he stood by what he'd told Neal later. He'd seen nothing like love in Kate's eyes, or words, or body language, that day in the hotel room. He saw a woman trading on the boundless affection she knew she inspired in Neal, someone who was grasping and self-interested. Someone who would have no hesitation about doing whatever was needed to survive. Including an alarming willingness to pull a gun on an FBI agent. She'd looked quite comfortable with a gun in her hand.

Just like Neal.

That was something about Neal that Peter _hadn't _known—how adept he was with a gun. It wasn't hard to see why Neal would have kept _that _from him, though.

* * *

Finally, the end of the warehouse. Finally, the sidewalk in front of the warehouse. Surely it hadn't taken an hour to get this far—it just felt like it. Well, never mind that—he'd completed step four. _Wait, was that step four? _he wondered blearily, closing his eyes and trying to remember how he'd broken things down in his mind. _Yes._ Yes, step four had definitely been about getting here, to the sidewalk. Now to step five—finding someone to help him.

Carefully, Neal leaned his shoulders back against the front of the building, grateful for the support even as he gingerly tried not to put any unnecessary pressure on his throbbing wrists. Hearing a sound, he blinked his eyes open just in time to catch a glimpse of an SUV, speeding from his left off to the right.

"Hey!" he shouted, surprised at how weak his voice sounded and how out of breath he was. He pushed himself away from the wall, wobbling unsteadily and groaning at how much the movement hurt. "Hey, wait!"

Of course they couldn't hear him. The bastard had been driving too fast, anyway. He was gone.

Well, too bad, but this was New York City, one of the most densely populated cities on earth. People everywhere, all the time. Somebody would show up.

He slumped back against the building to wait.

As minutes passed, Neal was forced to acknowledge that, New York's population density notwithstanding, this particular corner at this moment in time was decidedly deserted. The neighborhood—a generous term to use, really—consisted of warehouses and some boarded-up buildings. No coffee shops or newsstands or mini-marts or Duane Reades anywhere nearby. And people were _not_ everywhere; in fact, they were nowhere to be found.

When help did arrive, it would be via the street, he realized hazily. He needed to get as close to it as possible.

He pushed himself off, away from the building, wincing at the pain in his wrists, and tottered across the sidewalk. Nearly tripping again, Neal looked down; the concrete was cracked and pitted with holes. He had to watch carefully to make sure he didn't fall. One sprained ankle was bad enough.

When he reached the edge of the sidewalk, right next to the street, he leaned cautiously against a dirty-looking pole he normally would have been loath to touch—_doesn't matter, this suit is already ruined_—and waited. Neal could feel the energy leeching out of him, replaced by a terrifying lethargy that would be the end of him. _Of both of you,_ he reminded himself.

No cars, no people. He waited and hoped, and then waited some more. But the street mocked him, silent and empty, and his hope began to vanish.

_Don't just stand there, do something. _

If he couldn't count on help coming to him, then there was only one option: he'd have to go find it. He'd come this far, after all.

So Neal started walking again, in desperation, not knowing what else to do and dimly cognizant that he was nearing the end of his endurance. He didn't know which way to go and chose left. _L for left, L for lucky. _Why not? Surely he was due for some luck. Neal shivered as he limped along the sidewalk. He was alternately hot and cold, feeling nauseous again, and very, very tired.

He was so tired, in fact, and so focused on looking down—_someone should really fix this sidewalk, _he thought aimlessly_—_that he didn't hear the vehicle at first.

It was approaching him from behind and traveling fast.

Hearing the noise, he whirled back, to his right, nearly losing his balance. _There it was. _A white box truck—close and coming toward him quickly. By the time he registered its presence, the truck was no more than a block and a half away.

Neal yelled. Actually, he screamed. His voice was ringing painfully in his own ears, but it sounded hoarse and, he knew, not nearly as loud as it should have been. Plus, it was a hot day, the truck's windows were up, and, Neal realized, heart sinking, that the driver couldn't possibly hear him.

He couldn't wave his arms. He couldn't make himself heard. Neal could think of only one way to get noticed, to get the help that he needed. _That Peter needed._

Desperation was a powerful motivator. There was no time to think, no chance to devise an alternate plan.

And so, without hesitating, Neal stepped off the curb.

Right into the path of the speeding truck.

_This is not getting noticed, _a disapproving voice in his mind chided. _This is getting run over._

The truck wasn't far away when he ran into the street in front of it. The giant metal grille was all he could see as the vehicle rushed toward him. Everything else faded away—there was only the oncoming truck and the shiny silver metal that covered the front of it. The metal that was going to flatten him in another couple of seconds. The glint of the sun off the grille was blinding, hurting his eyes. He closed them; if he was going to get hit by a truck, the least he could do was close his eyes so he didn't have to see it. No one should have to see that, right? Surely nobody would expect him to watch it happen.

Neal turned his body, instinctively trying to back away, knowing now that he was too close for it to matter. He stumbled backwards awkwardly, but it was useless.

Well, he'd been seen—for all the good it would do. He could hear the high-pitched noise of the truck's brakes as the driver applied them. The squealing brakes, along with the blaring horn, screamed loud in his ears, like a really annoying funeral dirge—kind of appropriate, actually.

_This is it,_ he thought, surprisingly calm. _Hopefully it will happen too fast to hurt._

_Sorry, Peter. I tried. I really tried. This time, the plan didn't work._

The last thing he remembered, before the blinding sun disappeared and the world went dark— and even the pain went away—was the sound of Peter's voice echoing in his head.

_You call that a plan?_

_TBC…._

* * *

_A/N Thanks for all of the wonderful feedback and support from so many of you. Always eager to hear what you think as a reader. It means so much . . . thanks again.  
_

_A/N  
_


	9. Brave the Shadows

**Critical Hour  
**

**Chapter 9 – Brave the Shadows**

"_**Your truest friends are the ones who will stand by you in your darkest moments - because they're willing to brave the shadows with you . . . ."  
**_― Nicole Yatsonsky

* * *

Darryl Rawlins was happy.

He was on his last run of the day, looking forward to an evening with Lena and her little boy, Max. He'd met Lena through a friend of a friend, not expecting much; Carlos's setups were uniformly short-lived. But Lena had turned out to be different. She was independent and at ease with herself, and he'd never been with a girl who made him laugh the way she did.

Max's father had never really been in the picture. Darryl, who had no kids of his own and had never thought that far ahead, had found the role of surrogate dad one he'd slipped into with surprising ease. He liked the way Max looked up to him, and the way it made him feel needed.

_And it didn't hurt him with Lena, either. _

He was pushing it a little, about to make his final delivery of parts before knocking off for the day. If he got done early, maybe he could take Max to the playground; Lena would be happy to have them out from underfoot while she cooked anyway. Her apartment, which she and Max shared with her sister, was typical New York—in other words, tiny.

So it was that he was speeding (just a bit) when the man in the suit and white shirt ran out in front of his truck.

_What the hell. _Darryl cursed and laid on the horn. At the same time he jammed his foot down hard on the brake pedal, watching in horror as the screeching filled his ears, deafeningly loud. The man, maybe realizing (belatedly) that he was screwed, stumbled back, away from the truck. Darryl saw blood on his face and his shirt.

Then another second passed and the man abruptly disappeared as the truck jerked to a stop, hard enough that Darryl felt whiplash.

_Jesus, was he trying to kill himself?_

Darryl gasped, adrenaline pumping, equal parts angry and terrified. He'd hit him, Darryl was pretty sure. Not that hard, he didn't think—he'd been _this _close to getting the truck stopped—but it felt like there'd been some kind of impact. Hopefully minor.

_If there was such a thing as a minor impact when a truck hit a human being . . . ._

He shut off the engine, realizing distantly that his hands were shaking. As fast as he could manage, he threw the door open, and leaped out of the cab, praying silently that he wouldn't see what he was afraid he'd see. Then he remembered the blood he'd observed.

_He was already hurt before you hit him._

Quickly he ran around the bumper of the truck. The man was sprawled flat on his back, and he wasn't moving. Blood was splattered all over his face, as if he were wearing a grisly mask, and it had spilled down onto his shirt.

"Shit," Darryl muttered to himself. "Shit, no." He fell to his knees next to the man, conscious of his own heart pounding double-time in his chest. The guy was well-dressed in what looked like an expensive suit and a fancy tie—though they were ruined now, stained with blood and other things—like the guy had been sick, maybe? He was no street person, that was for sure. Maybe out of his mind on Ecstasy or whatever the drug of choice was these days—Darryl had outgrown that stuff a few years ago. Whatever it was, he looked like a guy who could afford a hell of a party. The party must have ended badly, though—the man was a mess. His clothes were ruined, his head bloody and bruised, his face pale and sweaty.

"Hey, you okay?"

No answer. Darryl reached out an unsteady hand to the man's throat, which looked strangely mottled. Feeling desperately for a pulse, he could sense nothing at first and felt sick.

_Oh, no._

"Wake up, man. Come on. _Please."_

_Jesus, Mary and Joseph. You killed him. _Panicking, he moved his fingers over, pressing a different spot on the man's throat. _It has to be here. It has to . . . _

An instant later, he felt it. A fluttering pulse, fainter and slower than it ought to be, but most definitely _there._ Darryl exhaled in relief, closing his eyes for an instant before opening them to look down anxiously.

"Hey, wake up. Are you okay? What happened?" He tried to rouse the man, giving his shoulder a little shake.

The man let out a low moan and jerked away in pain. Darryl let go of the shoulder, realizing he was hurting the guy. "Hey, come on. Look at me."

He was afraid the man had slipped into unconsciousness again, but a minute later, he blinked a few times and squinted at Darryl with eyes that were startlingly blue—but also alarmingly unfocused.

"Hey," Darryl said anxiously. "Hey, are you okay?"

"What—what happen'd?" the man asked, words slurring slightly.

"You ran in front of my truck, man. I could have killed you. What the _hell_ were you thinking?"

The man flinched a little at the anger and said, under his breath, "Geez, Peter, there's no need to yell."

"What? Who's Peter? I'm not Peter," Darryl pointed out, but the man didn't seem to hear as he struggled to move, to lift his upper body off the ground. Darryl tried, gingerly, to help, remembering how the man had reacted to being touched earlier.

"Peter, don't," the man groaned. "Please, don't. Just leave me alone. Hurts."

As he helped lift the stranger's shoulders off the pavement, Darryl looked down, behind him, and froze.

The man's hands were bound tightly behind his back, wrists bleeding and hands purple from lack of circulation. Darryl stared at the ugly head wound, the blood matted in the dark hair, the bruises on his face, his neck, and felt horrible realization dawning. All his thoughts about the man being drunk or high flew out of his mind. This guy had been assaulted—kidnapped, by the looks of it. And he'd been desperate enough to get away from whoever did this to him that he had run out in front of a speeding truck, for God's sake.

"Hey, buddy," he said, softer now. "What happened to you?" He had a flash of inspiration, mixed with anger on this poor bastard's behalf. "Did this—this _Peter_, did he do this to you?"

The man was sitting up now. He'd closed his eyes and seemed to be concentrating on just breathing. But at the mention of _Peter_, his eyes flew open.

"Peter," he echoed. "Peter caught me twice."

He said it in a monotone that made it sound as if he were reciting something he'd memorized. Darryl felt a little chill at how unemotional the words sounded—like he'd already moved beyond fear and into resignation. _And he'd already escaped and been recaptured? How had that happened?_

"I don' . . . count the second time. Kinda gave up," the man added. He hesitated before adding, "Peter . . . he counts it, though. Def'ly . . . counts it . . . ."

"Peter is the one who hurt you?"

" 'M no good to Peter with my hands tied," he said. This made no sense to Darryl, but before he could ask for an explanation, the man said, sounding confused and suddenly frightened, "Where's Peter?"

"I don't know, but you're safe now," Darryl answered. "You were kidnapped, right?"

"Kid-kidnapped? I . . . I don' remember. That's . . . was that . . .?" the man said vaguely, sounding strangely unconcerned about the whole thing. _Or maybe that was just the concussion talking._ He didn't volunteer anything else.

Darryl glanced down and felt his breath catch.

The man's shirt was half open, his skin exposed. Right in the middle of his chest were three red marks. But they weren't from the truck, or from any sort of accident. Someone had very deliberately scratched the lines into his skin. Carefully, so they were exactly the same length, perfectly spaced. They looked fresh. They looked new.

The sight of them filled Darryl with horror.

In shock, Darryl stared at the marks for a long moment. Then he tore his gaze away, reflexively looking around the deserted street for threats. He half-expected to see a gang of armed men looking for this guy, whoever he was. The sunny, perfect day had turned sinister. Somewhere nearby was someone who'd tied this guy up and beaten him brutally. Darryl fought the urge to shiver.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"Your name."

"Oh. Neal."

"Neal, I'm Darryl, and I'm gonna help you out. I just need to go back to my truck, okay? I think I've got something there to cut this wire off your wrists."

" 'Kay."

"Just sit tight." He let go of the man and bolted for the back of truck, glancing back to see Neal listing to the left slightly. Hopefully he wouldn't fall over before Darryl got back to him.

First priority was to get something to free the guy's hands. And he'd need to call an ambulance . . . .

_You ought to try to keep him talking, too._

"So you know this guy, this Peter?" Darryl called out.

"Work for'im."

"Doing what?"

"Whatever . . . he wants. He owns me . . . for four years," Neal said; the casual way he said it was unsettling.

_He owns me? _"Nobody owns anybody. Christ, you don't have to work for anybody who treats you like this," Darryl replied.

"No choice," Neal said, sighing heavily.

"Shit, man, come on. You got resources." The man was well-dressed, obviously educated, and seemed to have money. _Unless all of that came from this Peter . . . ._

"He always knows where I am," Neal answered dully. "If I try to run, he'll find me. He always finds me. Lock me up."

_Jesus._

"Not so bad, though," Neal continued. " 'S okay."

_Not so bad? Okay?_ Darryl was horrified. It reminded him of the time his sister's friend Nora had been with a guy who had a habit of slapping her around when he'd had a few too many. She, too, had insisted that it wasn't that bad, when the bruises on her face said otherwise. This Neal looked a hell of a lot worse than Nora ever had—and yet now he was acting like this was perfectly fine?

Darryl couldn't help it; his protective instinct had kicked in when Nora was threatened, and he felt the same way now about this guy, who he didn't even know.

"No, this is not okay, man. But you're not gonna have to worry about this guy anymore," Darryl told him. "We'll call the cops and they'll take care of him." He only hoped that Neal wasn't mixed up with something illegal that would get _him _in trouble. Darryl couldn't help that, though.

"Where'd you come from, Neal?" Darryl asked as he moved the lift gate out of the way and rolled up the truck's back door. _Did they keep bolt cutters in the trucks?_

"Took me forever to get here," Neal mumbled, which wasn't really an answer, but at least he was conscious and talking.

_There it was._ He found a tool box and rummaged through it, digging through screwdrivers and wrenches until he found it—no bolt cutters, but a pair of pliers that should work nicely.

"Is Peter here?" Neal asked, sounding plaintive.

"No, he's gone," Darryl assured him, hoping it was true. "You're safe, Neal. And I found some pliers—I'll have your hands free in a minute, like magic." He saw a discarded towel and shoved it under his arm.

"I—I can do magic," Neal said slowly, tentatively, like he was discovering something.

"What, can you pull a rabbit out of your hat?" Darryl asked. He was about to slam the door shut when, at the last minute, he had the idea to grab the extra bottle of water he'd brought with him for lunch but hadn't touched. It was still there, in the cooler. He also dug out the emergency kit and slung it over his shoulder. Every company truck came equipped with one; Darryl had no idea what was in it, but maybe there'd actually be something useful.

When he came around the truck back to where Neal sat, the man was slumped forward, wincing. His eyes were closed again. "Okay, let's take a look," Darryl said briskly; Neal didn't react at all. "Hey, don't fall asleep on me, okay?"

Darryl set down the emergency kit and the water. He knelt behind Neal, bracing him gently with one hand. He examined the bound wrists, deciding where to cut. _Christ, what a mess. _Darryl sucked in a breath at the sight. "Sorry, Neal, this is probably gonna hurt."

The man didn't answer, and Darryl felt a pang of worry as he carefully worked the pliers around the bonds, keeping as far away from the skin as he could. It wasn't easy, given how tightly the wire was wrapped around Neal's wrists, cutting into the flesh. The man's wrists and hands were slippery with little trails of blood. Darryl swore under his breath when Neal jerked away, groaning as Darryl shifted him to get a better angle.

"Sorry, shit, I'm sorry. So, so you're a magician, huh?" he asked, trying to take Neal's focus off of the pain he knew he was causing him. "Do you make things disappear, or pull rabbits out of your hat, or what?" As jokes went, Darryl had to admit, it was pretty lame.

"Dis—disappear? Yeah," Neal answered in a low voice. "But I didn't . . . didn't wear a hat today."

Darryl had got the pliers where he wanted them, and once that was done, it was the work of only a few seconds to slice through the wire. Neal's arms fell lifelessly to his sides, and he cried out involuntarily. Darryl's gut twisted at the sound. Neal leaned forward, slowly bringing his wrists into his lap with what looked like great effort. He gasped in pain, rocking back and forth a little and staring at his torn wrists and bloody, swollen hands as if they belonged to someone else. Under his breath he muttered _shit, shit, shit._

"Here, have some of this." Darryl uncapped the bottle of water and held it out to Neal, who stared at it. _He can't move his arms,_ Darryl realized, so he held the bottle to the man's lips. Neal drank eagerly, too eagerly because he started to cough and splutter, turning his head away. Some of the water trickled down his chin onto his shirt. He moaned, a low, keening sound that made Darryl's heart lurch in his chest.

Darryl remembered the towel and took it in his right hand, dabbing awkwardly at the man's bloodied face. Neal squinted and tried to turn away.

"You like to wear hats," Darryl prompted, picking up the thread of the conversation, a little frantic now to distract him, to get the man talking again. "But not today." He was torn between staying with Neal, leaving the man to get to his phone which was on the front seat of the truck, or just getting him up and dragging him, if necessary, to the truck so they could both get the hell out of here. He knew he should get his phone, call for help, but he was afraid if he left that Neal would fall over.

"N—not today," Neal said, coughing and grimacing. Darryl decided he needed to get to his phone, he needed to call 911. He was starting to get up when Neal continued, "P—Peter said—"

Neal broke off abruptly, and his left hand shot out to grab Darryl's arm with surprising strength, stopping him from rising.

"_Peter,_" he said, in a voice suffused with terror. It sent a chill down Darryl's spine. "_Where is he?_" His words had been slurred before, but now they were spoken with striking clarity, like he'd suddenly woken up. Neal's breathing quickened and he started to shift, little jerky movements that were clearly painful.

"I don't know, Neal, but he's not here," Darryl said, trying to calm him. "He's not here, so it's okay. He's not gonna hurt you anymore." He held up the water bottle again, but Neal grunted and shook his head.

"No. Need to find him," Neal said, agitated. His blue eyes were wide with terror. "Help him."

Darryl wondered what kind of sick hold this Peter had over this guy, that Neal would be frantic to find—and apparently aid?—someone who'd hurt him so badly, who'd beaten him senseless.

"He's in trouble, he's—"

"All right, man, we'll figure that out, we'll get some help," Darryl soothed, figuring the guy was out of it and didn't know what he was saying. Or maybe Darryl had misunderstood. "Here, take this towel. I'm gonna get my phone and call for help."

" 'Kay." Neal's eyes wandered around, as if he was noticing his surroundings for the first time. He stopped when he saw the emergency kit. "Do you—is there something—in there for . . . for pain?"

"Uh, I don't know if that's a good idea," Darryl said hesitantly. "The paramedics will—"

"Please, I need something now. If you have it, I . . . ." Neal's voice trailed off as he wiped his face with the towel. It was red with his blood.

Darryl sighed and gave in. "I got Advil in the truck." Every now and then he got killer headaches. "Just stay here, okay?"

Darryl stood up and ran to the truck. He came back with his phone and a bottle of Advil. He removed the lid for Neal, who dropped the towel and cupped his hand so he could pop four pills into his mouth. Darryl helped him gulp some water to wash them down. He doubted the wisdom of giving Advil to someone in as bad a shape as Neal was, but he didn't have the heart to refuse him.

As Neal drank greedily, closing his eyes, Darryl keyed the password into his phone, glancing around for an address to give to the dispatcher.

"Okay, I'm calling 911—we'll get some help for you right away."

"_No!_" Neal said, voice urgent. "Need to call the FBI."

Darryl frowned. "The _FBI_? What for? You need an ambulance, man, and the police. They—"

"No, no, you have to call the FBI." Neal was pleading now.

"What the hell for?" Darryl demanded, fingers ready to hit 9-1-1.

"I work for them . . . and Peter. We need to call them now. Please."

Darryl eyed him skeptically. The guy didn't look like any FBI agent Darryl had ever seen. He couldn't help wondering if Neal had gotten hit so hard that he was inhabiting an alternate reality, one where FBI agents wore fashionable stubble, expensive tie bars, fancy cufflinks, and five-thousand-dollar suits. Honestly, if asked to guess his occupation, Darryl would have pegged him for a Wall Street bond trader who'd partied too hard. Or possibly a GQ model whose photo shoot had gone terribly wrong . . . but FBI agent would have been way, _way_ down on the list.

None of it made sense to Darryl. And yet the look on Neal's face was desperate, like his very life depended on calling the FBI right now. In the face of that desperation, Darryl gave in.

* * *

_Peter. You need to help Peter. Do something. Now. There's no time._

It was hard for Neal to think of anything else. Even the new slicing, burning pain in his hip, his chest, his back receded in the face of his terror for Peter.

Circulation was returning to his hands, and pain along with it. Neal took the phone the man offered. He set it on his legs and tried once, twice, to dial it before finally realizing the task was beyond him. His stiff, painful fingers wouldn't cooperate; the fact that they were slippery with blood in places wasn't helping either. Neither was his blurry vision.

Finally he managed to pick the phone up and hold it out to Darryl. "Dial for me?"

"Sure," Darryl said, nodding and taking the phone from his tingling fingers. Neal hesitated for a long moment—_Jesus, what is the number, think!—_before it finally came to him. He rattled off Diana's number and took the phone again when Darryl held it out to him.

"White Collar, Berrigan."

Neal let out a sigh of relief. Diana was there. Help would come. He let his head fall back a little, but brought it back when the motion caused an unexpected wave of dizziness. He leaned forward a little and stared at the ground for a moment, hoping the vertigo would fade. That was a little bit better.

"Who is this?" she snapped. That was Diana for you—ever patient.

"Di, it's Neal. We—Peter's in trouble and we need backup, right away. Please, you gotta come now."

On the other end of the line, Diana inhaled sharply, eyes widening in alarm at what he'd said, and how he'd said it. Neal hardly ever said _please_, and he never called her _Di_—normally he knew better than that. Even more worrisome was the tone of his voice . . . only sheer panic could explain it.

And God only knew what it would take to make Neal Caffrey panic.

Well, her day of catching up on paperwork had suddenly and officially gone to shit.

Neal heard her yell to Jones to pull up his tracking data before saying anxiously, "What happened? Where's Peter?"

"We went to . . . the warehouse to serve the—the warrant," he said, blinking furiously. _Oh damn. _The world was starting to spin again, and Neal caught a glimpse of the truck driver's concerned face before he shut his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the sickening motion.

"Neal?" Her worried voice was too loud in his ear, echoing inside his head painfully. He wanted to tell her to keep it down, but even if you had a perfectly good reason, there were some things you just didn't say to Diana. Not if you wanted to live.

Instead, he moved the phone an inch away from his ear and tried to take some deep breaths, forgetting that deep breaths hurt, and swore to himself.

_You need to explain or else she can't help. Focus._

"Regal was there, from the museum? He—he knocked me out and handcuffed Peter. Peter's trapped in there, trapped with him. I was gonna stay, but he made me leave, you have to come right away. Now, Diana, please—"

"We're on our way, Neal," she said in as calming a voice as she could manage. Christ, Caffrey was almost babbling now.

Neal listened as she barked more orders to Jones and whoever else was nearby. Then he felt the bile rising in his throat, managing to turn his head just enough so that when he vomited a moment later, he threw up on the pavement and not himself. Liquid came up—_probably the water you just drank—_along with the pills he'd swallowed. There was nothing else left in his stomach, apparently. When it was over, his body was wracked with spasms of pain that left him gasping and unable to even think, much less form coherent words. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. The truck driver—_Darryl, _he remembered—had put a hand on his shoulder. His touch was reassuring and warm.

"Neal? _Neal!" _Diana was calling his name, and shouting an address at him. They must have pulled up his map.

He nodded.

"Neal, answer me!"

_She can't see you nodding, stupid. _"Yeah," he said in a choked voice, stopping to swallow against the disgusting taste in the back of his throat. "Yeah, that's it." He was so tired. Coughing raggedly, he leaned his head against his hand.

In doing so, he'd taken the phone away from his ear, and her voice had faded. Hastily he brought the phone back up and heard her saying "—coming, Neal. We're on our way to you." It sounded like she was moving now. "How badly are you hurt?"

" 'M okay, I'll live," he said, "but you have to come. Peter's in there with him, I couldn't get him out, I—"

"I know, Neal. We're coming," she assured him again. "You're outside?"

"Yeah, I got away, I'm on the street, but I have to go back. Peter is—"

"No, no. We'll be there as fast as we can, but we have to mobilize a team and get to where you are. You have to wait for us, Neal. Wait 'til we get there, okay?"

"He might not have that much time," he told her, but she was arguing back at him. All he could think about was that _they were too far away, and Regal was too close, so close and Peter was . . . Peter was . . . ._

She was still talking, telling him it would take some time for them to get there, telling him to wait. Except she didn't understand. She had no _goddamn _idea. _What would it take to make her understand? _He didn't know. And he had neither the time nor the energy to try to figure it out.

* * *

Neal jabbed at the phone to end the conversation, heedless of the fact that Diana was still talking. He looked back up at the owner of said phone, who was now eying him with a mixture of disbelief and alarm.

"Hey, D—Darryl, thanks for the phone. Sorry I got . . . blood on it." Neal tried to slip it back into Darryl's shirt pocket. Then he tried again; finally Darryl took the device gently from his shaking fingers. "Help's on the way. But I gotta go back."

"For . . . uh, Peter." Darryl was embarrassed that he'd thought Peter was a bad guy, when it was now clear that Peter was anything but.

"Yeah," Neal said, managing a wan but appreciative smile. "Yeah, you got it."

Darryl eyed him warily, handing him the water bottle again—and, without being asked, shaking four more Advil out of the bottle. "You don't look so good. You said the guy who . . . who did this to you is still in there—"

"Yeah, yeah, but I'll be okay." Neal glanced around, a little wildly. He swished some water around in his mouth, and spat it out before drinking again. Then he set the bottle down, took the pills, and threw them in his mouth. He picked up the water again, grimacing as he drank. "Listen, thanks for everything. For—for not running me over and for . . . helping. Hey, man, you should move your truck. Don' want it to get hit."

_No, _Darryl thought, _he's not actually going to go. He can't. He's just saying that._

A moment later, he realized how wrong he was when Neal began, with one arm, to push himself up.

"Whoa, whoa, this is _not _a good idea—" Darryl started to say, but Neal ignored him and kept going.

Instinctively, Darryl reached out to help. A few seconds later, Neal was on his feet, swaying but upright. He locked eyes with Darryl, and the emotion, the gratitude there was almost unnerving. It was more than he deserved, and Darryl had the urge to look away. He didn't, though.

"Thanks, Darryl," Neal said again. "I owe you." Then he staggered away. Only then did Darryl realize how unnaturally his right arm was hanging, and that everything Neal had done, he'd done with his left hand. Broken arm? Darryl stared at him, open-mouthed, but before he could react, Neal was already on his way, like a bat out of hell. _Well, a bat out of hell with a painful limp._

Darryl's phone buzzed; he ignored it, paralyzed by the tableau in front of him. Because just as Neal was hobbling out into the street, another truck was approaching, passing on the left to get around Darryl's stopped vehicle. Neal hadn't even looked; he didn't see it coming—

"Shit, man, _look out_!" Darryl screamed, fearing Neal was going to get hit again. _Oh, holy mother of God . . . he didn't want to see this, no one should have to see this . . . ._

The truck driver slammed on his brakes and swerved, just avoiding Neal at the last second. He laid on the horn and screamed epithets out his open window at both of them.

Darryl called, "Hey, wait!" Neal ignored him; Darryl watched him round the corner and disappear.

"Crazy," Darryl muttered, shaking his head. He gave a conciliatory wave to the other driver, whose answering gesture (involving just one finger) was anything but. Neal was right, he needed to move his truck. He'd catch ungodly hell if anything happened to it.

Darryl jumped into the cab, tossing his phone on the seat just as it began buzzing. Hurriedly he started the engine and got the vehicle off to the side of the street. Once safely out of traffic, he managed to grab it right before it went to voicemail. There was no time to check the caller ID; he just picked it up and started talking. Darryl had a feeling he knew who was on the other end of the line.

"Is this Diana?" he asked breathlessly.

"Not to you, asshole," a woman's voice said, extremely loud and incredibly pissed. "This is FBI Special Agent Berrigan, and the man who was just using this phone? He's one of _my_ people. If you touch one hair on his head, it'll be the last thing you ever fucking do. _Think very carefully_ before you do anything else to him or—"

"Jesus, take it easy, lady—I mean, Agent. I didn't hurt Neal." _Well, not intentionally, anyway, _he thought guiltily.

"Yeah, I'll need to hear that from _Neal_." She sounded utterly unconvinced. "Put him on."

"Can't. He's gone."

"Gone where?"

"He went back to—back where he came from. One of these warehouses here."

"And you let him?" she demanded.

"I couldn't stop him," he said simply.

For an FBI agent, she had a very colorful vocabulary. Her rage now seemed to be directed more at Neal than at him, though. He listened to her swear, and relay things to whoever was with her. Apparently Neal's last name was 'Caffrey'; he heard it repeated several times, though in Agent Berrigan's commentary, it was often preceded by words like _goddamned _and _stupid _and _reckless _and _fucking idiot. _At the end, she let out a long sigh.

"Yes_, he's gone_," he heard her say. Darryl figured this was meant for someone else, since he already knew Neal was gone; in fact, he was the one who'd told her. She paused and exhaled, long and loud and started talking again to whoever she was with. "Of course. Because that's exactly what I told him _not_ to do."

He could hear lots of noise and another voice, a male voice, in the background, but not loud enough to distinguish the words.

"I take it he's not good with orders?" Darryl offered, thinking of how Neal had ignored _him_ when he'd tried to keep him from getting up.

"Not his strong point," the agent replied shortly.

Darryl leaned forward, scanning the building Neal had disappeared behind. "Look, I can get the address of the warehouse for you."

"Never mind. We always know where Neal is," she said; something in her voice made it sound like some kind of grim, private joke.

"Oh," he said, a little blankly.

"He wears an electronic monitor."

"Wait," Darryl said, surprised. "I thought he was an FBI agent?"

She let out a noise that sounded like a groan. "Did he tell you that?" Then she was yelling angrily again, at someone on her end, something about a team and backup and _now._

Waiting for her to finish, he thought for a moment—no, Neal hadn't said that exactly. "No, just that he worked for the FBI."

"He's not an agent, he's a consultant, and when he's not helping solve cases, he's usually a giant pain in the ass," she said, but there was an undertone of something almost like affection in her voice that belied the sharp words.

Darryl was piecing this together, along with the realization that _Peter _must be an FBI agent too, when she spoke again. Her tone was all business once more. "Sir, you need to tell me who you are and how Caffrey ended up using your phone."

Quickly, because she obviously would have no patience for delay, he explained. "My name is Darryl Rawlins. Neal flagged me down when I was driving by." He hesitated, then decided he was already too afraid of this woman to tell her anything but the truth. "Actually, he ran out in front of my truck. I—it happened so quick I . . . I hit him," he admitted. He heard her sharp intake of breath. "Just . . . barely, I think. I couldn't stop in time."

"Was he hurt?"

"He was—he was hurt before I hit him. His hands were tied behind his back, and he's . . . he's in bad shape."

Diana felt a chill. Neal had been abducted and, in typical Caffrey style, had managed to escape. _But what had happened to Peter? _ "Bad shape?"

"He was unconscious when I got to him. He got hit in the head, he's bleeding, he's limping, he's . . . he looks like he's about to collapse. I don't know how he made it this far."

"And now he's gone," she said. There was an emotion in her voice that he couldn't identify.

"Yes, ma'am," Darryl answered. He thought for a moment. "He went back for this . . . for Peter. I don't know who he is, but your agent—Neal—is determined to help him, even if he can barely manage to stay on his feet."

"Well, they're partners," Agent Berrigan said, as if that explained everything. Under the exasperation and worry, an unmistakable fondness had crept into her voice. "Special Agent Burke is also our boss."

She was issuing more orders, talking again to whoever was with her.

"Mr. Rawlins, I want to apologize for my . . . for what I said to you earlier. You may well have saved both their lives. Thank you."

"No problem," he said. "But they're still in trouble. I can go after your agents and try to help."

"No," she said sharply. "There's no one else nearby, is there?"

"No."

"You need to stay outside where it's safe. You're a civilian and this is an extremely dangerous situation. You could be injured. You could do more harm than good. Do you understand?"

Darryl didn't say anything.

"I wouldn't want to arrest you for interfering with an active investigation, but I would. This is for your safety. Do. You. Understand."

Darryl sighed. "Yes."

"Can you remain where you are until we arrive? Or NYPD, they might get there first. You can direct us where to go. We'll be there as soon as we can."

"Yeah, I'll just need to call my boss, let him know where I am."

"Of course."

"But," he tried again, "Neal, he's in there—he could be in trouble."

"Knowing Neal, it's a good bet," she replied grimly. "But you need to stay where you are. We'll be there soon."

Darryl thought of the sheer, unadulterated terror he'd seen in Neal's eyes and hoped it would be soon enough.

_TBC…..._

* * *

_A/N – In the spirit of the season, I want you to know that by reading and following and, most especially, reviewing—all of you following along with the story have given this author a wonderful gift. Happy Holidays to all of you!_


	10. Unwavering

**Critical Hour **

**Chapter 10 – Unwavering **

"_**His loyalty, so fierce and unwavering, makes my eyes water and heart ache." **_

― Emily Giffin

….

There were few things in life Peter Burke hated more than waiting for something to happen.

But now, handcuffed and helpless, that was all he could do.

He'd tried everything—not that he had many options. He had nothing to pick the cuffs with, and, thanks to Regal, they were far too tight to slip. As for the shelves, they wouldn't move. He'd given up pulling on them when all he'd accomplished by doing so was to make his wrists bleed. In the grand scheme of things, a pretty goddamned meaningless _accomplishment_.

In some ways, it was like being in the surveillance van during an operation. There, all you could do was sit and listen and . . . wait. Wait for other people to do things so that you could react. Peter was used to that by now, but that didn't mean he liked it.

Early in his career, Peter had been about as patient with sitting in the van as Neal was now. When Neal groused and fidgeted like a hyperactive child who'd been told to sit still, Peter smiled inwardly, because he'd been there (well, he'd hid it a lot better, but the emotion was much the same).

Not that he'd ever tell Neal that, of course.

So, yes, this was a little like the van. Not _exactly_ the same; in the van, small though it was, at least you could move around, stretch a bit. That was a luxury he didn't currently enjoy. And you didn't have the constant threat of death. That was different, too.

But the anxiety of knowing Neal was out there, doing something dangerous, that was the same—only a hundred times worse. Because if Neal got into real trouble this time, Peter couldn't help him. There would be no waiting for the "go" word, no backup team of agents ready to rush in if things went sideways. Things had already gone far beyond sideways, and Neal was on his own. If Neal needed help, Peter wouldn't even know, until it was too late.

Really, it was all in Neal's hands, now. And after recent events, that thought would normally have held no trepidation for Peter. He was well aware of how many of his colleagues at the Bureau would scoff at the idea of willingly putting their lives in the hands of a convicted felon, a prison escapee who wore a tracking anklet. Peter couldn't help being aware of it, because more than a few of those colleagues didn't hesitate to voice their derision when Neal was the topic of conversation. (Of course, they were agents who'd never actually _worked with _Neal.)

For those agents, so cynical, so trapped in a narrow-minded and conventional world view, Peter had nothing but disdain. Maybe disdain wasn't even the right word—it was more like _pity. _Because he knew, from very recent and very personal experience, exactly how far Neal was willing to go to keep him from harm. Neal had broken every FBI rule, risked Hughes' wrath, gone alone to a meeting with a kidnapper, and handed over a multimillion dollar ring—all to save Peter when he'd been abducted by Keller. And Neal had done all of these things, apparently, without a second thought.

* * *

When it was all over, after Peter had freed himself _(with Neal's help, of course)_, after Keller had disappeared _(bastard)_, after a public display of affection on a Garment District sidewalk that normally would have been anathema to Peter _(but not today)_, after Elizabeth finally let him go _(it took a while)_, they'd all returned to the Bureau. Peter had gone through a quick debrief of his ordeal while Jones and Diana entertained Elizabeth. Then he'd gone to look for Neal.

Neal hadn't been _avoiding _him, exactly, but he hadn't sought Peter out, either. Peter had cornered him and discovered that Neal didn't want to talk about it, changing the subject with stunning speed after giving the barest summary of his own actions, Neal had been clearly uncomfortable, which was intriguing in itself. His consultant, who could be glib about anything and who never missed an opportunity to make himself look good, had been shockingly reticent—almost terse—on the topic of what he'd done. In the end, Peter had had to talk to both Elizabeth and Diana to get the bigger picture.

As well as he knew Neal, in many ways the man was still a puzzle, and insights about him were like gold to Peter. He dug for them, he treasured them, he hoarded them. He never missed a chance to get one. And today was no exception.

…...

"Hey, Diana, got a minute?"

Peter had beckoned her into his office after he'd finished the initial debriefing session. He was back at his desk, fighting a strong urge to catch up on emails after being completely out of commission all day. Being abducted really put a crimp in the workflow, but Elizabeth would probably kill him herself if she caught him working. However, she was currently downstairs, chatting with Jones as Neal hovered nearby. So Peter had a few minutes to satisfy his own curiosity, at least.

"Okay, have a seat. Let's hear it," he said as she entered his office.

"Hear what?" Diana remained standing in front of the desk, her posture oddly tense.

He tsked at her. "Your account of what happened. Off the record. The stuff that somehow won't find its way into your official report."

She stared at him steadily. "This just ended—" she checked her watch, "not even two hours ago. I haven't even submitted a report yet. I'm good, but I'm not _that _good."

Peter leaned back in his chair, relaxed and curious. It wasn't like Diana to be evasive. "That's not really an answer. You must be taking lessons from Caffrey."

"Caffrey," she spat. "Oh, Caffrey. He is devious, you know that?" But she didn't look angry, not really. Instead, her face reflected a peculiar mixture of exasperation, guilt and . . . _pride?_

"I had no idea," Peter drawled. "Anyway," he added, turning serious, "Hughes already implied as much."

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I guess he would have."

"Diana, what exactly did Neal do?" Peter asked. He added, in a tone carefully calibrated with frustration—he thought Diana would respond to that— "I mean, I know the broad strokes, but . . . he won't tell me anything."

That caught her by surprise. "Really?"

"Really."

She sighed and sat down. "All right. Keller called Neal on your phone right after you were taken. But does Neal bring us in, then? No. He goes to meet Keller at the prison. Alone."

Peter groaned.

"I know," she agreed, frowning. "Neal only informed us later. He came back here, and Hughes pulled us both into his office, where Neal made an impassioned speech about how Hughes had to let him talk with Keller, that Keller wouldn't hesitate to kill you."

"Why?" Peter asked. "Why was he so sure?"

Diana hesitated. "I—I think you'd have to ask him that. But," she added, "he had his reasons. And I've never seen him that worried. About anyone or anything."

Peter mulled that over for a moment. Diana was holding back, but if it involved something Neal had told her in confidence, he didn't want to push. Not right now.

After a short pause, Diana resumed. "Hughes explained that that's not how it works, that Neal had to stay out of it, go home, let us do our jobs, and that we'd bring you back safe."

"What did Neal say to that?"

"Nothing. But you could tell from the look on his face that he thought it was just so much horseshit." She fidgeted with the arm of the chair, running a nail along the edge, back and forth. "He usually hides it much better than that."

She was right. Neal usually did. "So let me guess: sometime after that Neal hared off?" _That must have been when he'd met with Lang and handed over the ring._

Her gaze wandered away from his, beyond him to the buildings outside the window. "Not quite. Hughes sent him out of the office; he'd seen the look on his face, too, and he knew exactly what it meant. He warned me that my job was to make sure Neal stayed out of it, because, as he said, _I want this done by the book, and Neal has a tendency to write his own ending."_

Peter snorted. "That's almost poetic."

"Yeah," Diana replied, smiling faintly. She thought for a minute, remembering. "I think that's when Neal talked with Elizabeth; she'd just come into the office."

_Elizabeth_. Peter made a mental note to ask his wife about that later.

"Then what?" he prompted.

"Then your devious CI used _you_ to manipulate me into disobeying a direct order from my boss's boss," Diana retorted, eying him narrowly.

From Neal, Peter would have expected nothing less, but he fixed an appropriately sympathetic expression on his face. "Tell me."

She shook her head. "We left the office, like Hughes ordered. Then Caffrey starts in on me. _I need to engage Keller, he'll kill Peter, I can get a lead. _He must have already communicated with him again by that point . . ." she mused, almost to herself. "Anyway, when I told him I couldn't let him go off on his own, he said, _what do you think Peter would let me do?_"

"Aha."

"Yes, aha," she shot back. "Using _you _against me. But I'm not you, Peter."

"No, you're not."

"And even if I were, I don't think I'd let Caffrey get away with half the crap that you do."

"Probably not," he agreed solemnly. "So you . . . ."

"I let him go, of course," she said, throwing up her hands in a gesture of helplessness that was so _not _Diana.

He was glad she looked back at him, then, so she would see the proud, affectionate smile (the one he wasn't really supposed to have) on his face.

"What the hell else was I supposed to do?" she grumbled. "Now I _know_ why you let him get away with all that crap. One, he's too goddamned convincing, and two, it's so much easier to give in than to argue with him."

"Persuasive _and_ obstinate," Peter commiserated gravely. "Very trying." He considered for a moment. "So he met with Lang, got the message from me—"

"Quick thinking, on that, by the way, boss," she interrupted.

"Yeah, though it was Neal's idea to begin with. I just wish we'd been able to stop the transfer," Peter said, frowning.

He was alive, and thus the day had to be counted as a win. But the fact that Keller had orchestrated everything, had set him up, had him kidnapped, and _still_ managed to escape—that transformed it into a mixed victory, in Peter's book. When he thought about Keller walking around a free man—well, Peter tried not to think about it, because with that thought came an overwhelming rage. Not to mention a very uncharacteristic desire to smash things.

Most of the rest of what Diana had to say, Peter already knew—or could guess. He knew—of course, he'd been on the other end—about Neal's quick thinking that had helped him to escape the cell where he'd been held. He could guess at how badly Hughes had reamed both Diana and Neal out after Keller had gotten away. He hadn't known that Diana had defended Neal to Hughes, though; that surprised and pleased him. _Just another reason to be glad she was back . . . . ._

Diana interrupted his reverie. "You look tired, boss." She threw a meaningful glance at his computer, now booted up. "Please don't tell me you're going to do work. The only thing you should be doing is taking Elizabeth home."

"I will," he promised. "Thanks, Di. For everything."

She smiled, looking relieved to have this conversation over. "Don't mention it. Caffrey did the heavy lifting, anyway."

…..

Elizabeth's account, of course, was quite a bit different from Diana's mostly dry, clinical report. It was shorter, for one thing—she'd only seen Neal once. But apart from that, Elizabeth's narrative was visceral and visual. It was infused with the emotion Diana had buried—El's worry for Peter and her abiding affection for Neal.

El focused much more on what she thought Neal was thinking, what she'd felt, how Neal had looked. Her words painted a vivid picture that allowed Peter to visualize the conversation they'd had in his office, as if he'd been a silent bystander.

Neal leaning against the windowsill, arms tightly crossed against his chest, appearing somehow smaller than Elizabeth had ever seen him look. Neal, grim-faced, not wanting to verbalize his worst fears, not wanting to make her worry more than she already was, but being honest about the kind of adversary Keller was, because—she was pretty sure—he thought he owed her that.

Elizabeth, standing ram-rod straight on the other side of the desk, trying to be brave.

And all the while, Peter's empty chair sitting symbolically between them.

Of course, the other major difference between El and Diana, as Peter soon learned, was that Elizabeth had, very deliberately, incited Neal to do _the exact thing that Diana had tried to warn him off of._

At Elizabeth's insistence, she was driving them home. Hughes had caught Peter sitting in his office, just as Elizabeth had bounded up the stairs to demand why the hell, after everything he'd been through, that he appeared to actually be _working_. Shaking his head, Reese had ordered Peter to listen to his wife, who was clearly much smarter than her husband, and to go home immediately. It had been one hell of a day and there was always tomorrow to finish the reports and paperwork.

So Peter and Elizabeth left, holding hands the way they sometimes did, in unspoken admission that each needed to know the other was _right_ _there_. Neal had politely refused their offer of a ride, saying he needed to meet Mozzie so he could update him on the day's events.

When they got to the car, Elizabeth surprised him by taking the keys out of his hand. He protested that he was perfectly able to drive—and of course, he was. Other than some leftover soreness in his wrists and shoulders, he was fine, and he'd popped a few aspirin from his desk drawer when no one was looking, so even that pain, sharp as it had been initially, had dropped to the level of nagging discomfort. But Elizabeth ignored him, shooing him over to the passenger side. She hardly ever got behind the wheel when they were together, but Peter could sense somehow that she needed to _do_ _something_, so he let her.

As befitted an event planner, Elizabeth was a very careful, almost methodical driver. Peter watched his wife navigate the streets of Manhattan, enjoying the way she concentrated on the task, the way her eyes darted systematically from the road ahead to the rear view and side view mirrors and occasionally to Peter, sitting on her right. She kept a careful eye on the traffic around her, but she never went very long without stealing a glance at him, either, as if to reassure herself that he was really there. And any time she looked at him, she couldn't help breaking into a contented smile.

There was something inexplicably intoxicating about those smiles, about the way her manicured hands gripped the steering wheel, exactly at ten and two, slim fingers tapping restlessly when sitting in traffic, about her casual epithet when someone cut her off and she had to slam on the brakes. A few times, when they were stopped at a red light, she reached over and rested her right hand on his knee, giving him the opportunity to cover her hand with his.

Peter didn't like to think that he ever took El for granted. And yet, somehow, he'd never noticed before how adorable she was when she was driving.

_How did I not notice that?_

El was relating her story of the encounter in Peter's office. "Neal was just standing there, he seemed relaxed, leaning back on the sill, but if you took a second look, you could see he was like . . . like a coiled spring. And when I made him tell me about Keller, he was walking a tightrope, trying not to lie to me, but trying not to scare me, either. Holding back, you know?"

"Oh, I know," Peter assured her. _Did he ever. _

"And, it actually kind of pissed me off a little bit," she burst out. "I mean, Reese had just left, after showering me with platitudes about how everyone is focused on finding you and they're going to bring you back and I shouldn't worry, blah, blah, blah. And the whole time Neal is standing there, watching and listening and not saying a word, but I can tell that he . . . ."

"That he thought it was just so much horseshit?" Peter suggested, borrowing Diana's turn of phrase _(because, really, it had been pitch-perfect)_.

That got him a look—and the brilliant smile he treasured above all others. "Exactly!"

"And _you_ believed a criminal instead of a senior FBI agent."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course, honey. It's _Neal."_

He groaned as she kept going.

"So after Neal tells me about Keller and how he knows everything the FBI is going to do, because he's a chess player who thinks twenty steps ahead, that's when I said to him, point-blank, 'What are _you_ doing?'"

Her emphasis on the _you _was alarmingly definitive. Peter, sighing inwardly, was pretty sure he knew where this was going.

Everyone knew that Neal broke the rules, but what would they say if they knew that Peter's wife had been the chief instigator of said rule-breaking more than once? Peter hadn't forgotten—_how could he?_— about a certain video tape on which he appeared amenable to a bribe from a federal judge. About how that tape had turned out, in the end, to be mysteriously blank. About thanking Neal _(because surely Neal had been behind it)_, and then the shock as Neal's throwaway line belatedly registered, belatedly made sense.

_I have no idea what you're talking about. But you really should thank your wife._

And this was going to be more of the same, he could just tell.

"You put him on the spot, El."

She shook her head determinedly. "Neal was already there, hon. When I asked him what he was doing to help, he uncrossed his arms, got up, and came to stand right in front of me. So close . . . . Then he gave this long, contemptuous look back toward Reese's office, and he said, in the—the most mocking voice you can imagine, 'Well, they _want_ me to go home. They want me to sit tight.' So naturally, _I_ said, 'Is that what you're going to do?"

Elizabeth was a hell of a storyteller. Even though he was pretty sure he knew how this scene was going to end, Peter couldn't deny he was caught up in the tale.

She had paused, though, so he jumped in. "Okay, I think I know what happens next. Neal tells you he's going to go off the reservation to figure out a way to get me back."

El didn't turn, but her gaze slid over, so that she was looking at him out of the corner of her eye. Even at this angle, he could see a kind of surreptitious sparkle there. And her lips had curved into the beginning of a grin he could only describe as _wicked_.

"You would think that, wouldn't you?" she said airily.

"What, you're saying he didn't?" he asked, confused.

"He never said that. Instead, he looks at me, so focused, like I was the only thing that existed in his world at that moment and he doesn't so much say it as he _whispers_ it: 'What do _you_ want me to do?_'"_

Peter knew that whisper. It was one of the tools Neal used when he knew Peter wouldn't want to go along with whatever he was proposing. In fact the more convincing Neal thought you needed, the lower his voice got. When Neal pulled out the _I'm serious _whisper, that meant he was completely committed.

_And that, soon enough, you would be, too. Whether you wanted to or not. Often in spite of your better judgment . . . ._

"It was as if he was almost . . . asking for permission—but for something he was going to do anyway, whether I gave my blessing or not," Elizabeth said quietly.

"Maybe, but more likely he would have just talked you into it," Peter answered, thinking again of what Diana had said: _He's too goddamned convincing, and it's easier to give in than to argue with him._

Elizabeth pursed her lips. "Thinking back on it now, though, it wasn't even a question, not really. I think—no, I _know_—that was why he asked me. He . . . he knew what I was going to say," she said, as if she were just realizing it.

Peter had to smile at that. Of course he had. Neal was like a good defense attorney. He never asked an important question without already knowing that the answer would be in his favor.

"And then you told him to do whatever he needed to do," Peter surmised.

"Yes," she said, giving him a defiant glance, like she was expecting him to challenge her.

"Which means you gave him your blessing to defy the FBI," he said with a sigh.

"That's a little harsh."

"But not untrue," Peter retorted as she shot a mock glare at him. "And what did Neal say to that?"

"Not a thing. He just looked me in the eye and gave me this little, satisfied nod. And neither of us said another word because we totally understood each other."

He watched her, watched the small, affectionate smile on her face as she remembered, and shook his head. Neal and El truly were a dangerous combination. When he said as much to her, she just smiled wider.

"I know this is a reversal of what I normally say about Neal," Peter tried, "but I think _you_ may be a bad influence on _him._ Encouraging him to violate policy—"

"Hon, this wasn't about _policy_." Now she sounded exasperated, verging on angry. "This was about making sure you came home. And if you don't think Neal and I are going to be simpatico on that, that we're _always _going to move heaven and earth to make that happen, then you don't know either of us very well.

Then Neal had gone and done exactly what she'd told him to do—he'd made sure Peter came home.

….

Neal had followed up that bit of heroism, on their next case, with the kind of careless, trademark risk-taking that Peter hated most of all. Neal had been playing the part of the FBI agent, while Peter played Neal. Secretly, Peter had enjoyed the role reversal more than he thought he would, even as he worried that Neal was reveling in it a little _too _much. And at the end, Neal really gave him cause to worry. With Peter trapped in the gallery, Neal had rushed in to confront Stanzler, who had a _gun_, for God's sake, while Neal had nothing but a badge—and a fake one, at that.

Peter had managed to disarm Stanzler, but only just in time. Another second and the bastard would have pulled the trigger on Neal.

Another second and Stanzler would have gunned Neal down right in front of him.

_While Peter watched helplessly._

When it was all over, after Stanzler had been cuffed and Mirandized, glowering at them over his shoulder as he was led away, Peter had really let Neal have it.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?" he'd demanded, and he didn't care that his fury was audible, that he sounded, atypically, as if he were on the verge of losing it. He _wanted_ Neal to hear it, to know how enraged he was. Because this wasn't the first time Neal had done something so reckless that it made Peter want to lock the man back up just to make sure he kept breathing.

Unperturbed, Neal had looked right back at him, not backing down. "I wanted to help. You were in trouble. It's what you would've done."

"_I carry a gun, Neal!" _Peter had had to fight the urge to shout. "You had a _badge. That you made yourself, for God's sake. _He could have shot you, so easily." Peter rubbed his face in frustration. "And there you are, charging in and holding up that badge like . . . like it was a goddamned bullet-proof vest."

_He had been, too. _ That image was burned into Peter's brain, of Stanzler aiming his gun at Neal, while Neal clutched that badge in front of him, like it was going to protect him, somehow. That kind of thing was sheer insanity, and it had to stop.

"Oh, Peter," Neal had said mildly, in his _surely you jest_ voice, "Give me a little credit. I knew the _badge _wasn't going to protect me. _You were."_

And just what the hell was Peter supposed to say to that?

The truth was, Peter's faith in Neal had never been stronger—Neal's penchant for taking excessive risks notwithstanding. But today, his confidence in Neal's capability, given the injuries Regal had inflicted, had never been lower.

Neal would move heaven and earth to help Peter, of that the agent had no doubt.

The problem was, Neal had to be conscious to do it.

* * *

Diana was going to be angry, Neal knew.

No_, _he corrected himself. Actually, _angry_ was a major, major understatement of what Diana was going to be.

She'd told him to stay. To wait outside. But he'd left. To go back _inside_.

She'd been talking to him. And he'd hung up on her.

When Neal behaved for Peter, often it was because, secretly, Neal didn't want to let him down. When Neal obeyed Diana, often it was because he was afraid of what she'd do if he didn't. She was much more likely to resort to threats to keep the resident ex-con in line. And she wasn't the type to make idle threats, either. Thus Neal had a well-developed sense of wariness where Diana was concerned.

But that wasn't enough to stop him. Not today. For one thing, he doubted she'd have the heart to carry out any threats now: he was in far too pathetic of a state already.

Anyway, she didn't fully understand the situation, the danger Peter faced.

Neal did.

He knew that his partner was trapped next to a coiled snake that could strike at any moment. What if Neal allowed himself a few moments of blissful, horizontal, _safe_ repose and, during that time, Regal regained his senses and hurt Peter? _Or . . . did worse than hurt him. _It didn't bear thinking about. Neal would never forgive himself.

_There's no time. _

And he knew, with every fiber of his body and soul, what Peter would do, if their situations were reversed.

Peter wouldn't have let anything—or anyone—stop him from going back for Neal.

_You have to go, _the warning voice in his head said. _Now. You have to get back to Peter. Nothing else matters._

So he got up, dragged himself to his feet with Darryl's help, realizing he absolutely could _not _allow himself to think about the burning agony in his chest, his hip—well, really it was pretty much everywhere by this time. _You got hit by a truck, you're lucky to be alive, _the rational part of his mind noted, even as another mental voice retorted, _This is lucky? It sure as hell doesn't feel lucky. _

Neal didn't remember the truck hitting him, and he was grateful for that, for the fact that he'd blacked out at some point. But the new, white-hot sparks of pain blossoming in his chest, his hip, his back, had to have come from the impact with the truck, the ground, whatever.

_Doesn't matter. All that matters is getting back to Peter in time. _

So he staggered away from Darryl, back toward the warehouse, back across the street.

_Right into the path of another truck._

_Shit. _

Heart pumping double-time, he launched himself back onto the sidewalk, barely avoiding the oncoming vehicle, and grabbed for a pole. Except, even though he could see it plainly, the pole wasn't where he thought it would be. _Did it move? _Neal reached out and got nothing but air at first. Finally his flailing arm found the rough metal and he clung to it like a drowning man clutching a life preserver, gasping in pain.

_No, poles don't move, you idiot. You're seeing double. Or triple. _

For a second, he let himself hang on, thankful that he once again had the use of his hands to keep himself from falling. Even though they hurt like hell, he could still use them. Well, one of them, at least. The pain was starting to recede, finally, as feeling returned to his fingers. _He'd never take his hands for granted again._

The sudden movement had sent little rockets of pain exploding and bouncing around inside his head. He had to close his eyes until the fusillade died down. Now that his hands were free, he knew for sure that something was very, very wrong with his right shoulder, the one he'd rammed into Regal. Neal was no doctor, but he knew enough—and the pain was intense enough—to realize that he was probably going to need the services of one when this was all over. Assuming he was alive to _see_ a doctor. In fact, a mere doctor might not be enough; Neal was starting to think he would need a whole team of medical professionals.

_I've already got the team in place for my next project, but I'll make an exception for your Neal._

Neal blinked at the little voice whispering in his head. _Where had that come from?_

It took his jumbled brain a few seconds to recognize Regal's words, Regal's voice. He'd been talking to Peter while Neal had been lying on the floor.

More fragments of conversation came back to him.

_Neal's not going to work for you. _ That was Peter, sounding confident. Like it was automatic. It made Neal smile, a little, to hear it. It was just so . . . Peter.

_Of course he will, _Regal had responded, also sounding awfully sure of himself. _After all, I'll be offering him the chance to be himself again._

_Except that's not who he is anymore._

Regal, disbelieving: _I'm sure that's what he'd like you to think. I wouldn't have believed an FBI agent could be duped that easily . . . For Neal's sake, I hope you're mistaken . . . ._

Neal frowned. Interesting that Regal just assumed he'd jump at the chance to get away from the FBI. But this wasn't really important. He needed to concentrate, get himself under control.

_I won't need an anklet to control him. And Neal is quite smart enough to know what's good for him. _

Regal's voice again, sending a little chill down his spine.

_Stop it. _Shaking his head, Neal focused himself on the task at hand. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and continued to make his way back, back toward Peter, as quickly as he could. He was able to move much faster now, though he felt the beginning of panic that his pace wouldn't be fast enough.

His body wanted nothing more than to lie down and not move for several days, if not weeks. But his heart and mind overruled those baser instincts. When the pain flared, when he had to pause to catch his breath or to wait for the dizziness to subside before he could move again, Neal thought about all the times Peter had saved him. About waking up in Avery's hermetically sealed comic-book storeroom—_comic books, seriously?_—feeling oddly cold, gasping for breath, Peter's reassuring hands warm and solid on his chest; he'd faced down a shotgun to save Neal's life—and started him breathing again, too.

Or he recalled coming to his senses in the Howser clinic, confused about where he was and how he'd gotten there, confused about everything except that Peter—_of course, Peter_—was there to get him out.

He thought about Peter at the airfield, when it felt like the world had just ended in a blast of heat and flame, Peter grabbing Neal and holding on tight, refusing to let Neal throw himself into what had become Kate's funeral pyre.

Peter, convincing Neal, just with the power of his voice and their connection, to put the gun down, to not fire the bullet that would have killed Fowler—and would have effectively killed Neal, too, by putting him in prison for the rest of his life.

How many times had Peter saved _him_? All of those times-and more.

It was time for Neal to return the favor.

...

Maybe the water and the painkillers were kicking in a bit to aid him; the fire in his shoulder and the sharp pain in his ribs had eased slightly. His head still felt like someone was rhythmically tapping it with a hammer, though, with any movement he made. And every step he took felt like someone was shoving a knife into his ankle—and then twisting it for good measure.

Despite the pain that was seemingly everywhere, and the nauseating way the world tilted and blurred when he moved too fast, he felt somewhat revived both physically and mentally. He felt more like himself, at least. Not quite clear-headed, but definitely more in possession of his faculties than at any point since Regal had knocked him out.

Which was good, because he had a feeling he was going to need as many of his wits as he could marshal before this was all over.

He knew it wasn't just the water or the painkillers, though. It was the grim certainty that Peter needed him, that Peter's fate might rest in Neal's hands. Collapsing wasn't an option. The rush of fear and adrenaline when he thought about what Regal could do to Peter helped to spur him on. It was sort of a second wind—determination fueled by sheer desperation.

Neal had always been a nuance guy; he automatically saw complexities and shadings in everything. There were always alternatives, there were always multiple outcomes, all kinds of possible scenarios for how events would play out, depending on what course of action one chose. But there was no nuance here. This situation was frighteningly simple. He had to get to Peter or the unimaginable would happen.

_It's unfortunate that I have to kill you, Agent Burke. _

He swallowed hard as, once again, Regal's mocking voice rang out in his head.

He had to keep moving, or Peter could die.

Put in such stark terms, it meant he didn't have a choice. It meant whatever discomfort he was feeling paled in comparison and had to be pushed aside.

He retraced his steps, limping and lurching as fast as he could manage. Blood was once more dripping down his forehead, threatening to obscure his vision; he swiped his left arm across his forehead and winced at how much he was still bleeding. It was hard to tell, though, how much of the blood now on his arm was from his lacerated wrists and how much had come from the head wound.

Now that he'd reached the building, at least he could conserve what little energy he had by leaning on the wall for support. Neal concentrated single-mindedly on putting one foot in front of the other, on not allowing himself to stop, for fear he would never get started again. At least now that his hands were free—well, he was afraid to use the right one for much of anything for fear of wakening the pain in that shoulder—he could use his left hand to help him balance, to grip the concrete in case he needed to hold on.

Neal slid along, parallel to the wall, panting from exertion, but progressing much faster than he had before. Problem was, the cumulative effect of the blows he'd taken was becoming hard to ignore. Whether he wanted to or not, he was going to crash soon; his body would demand it.

And that would be fine—better than fine, really. Unconsciousness actually sounded pretty appealing right now. As long as he made sure Peter was safe before that happened.

Once Peter was safe, he would handle everything. What had Neal said to him at the close of the boiler room case, after he'd given Peter the mini-breather and counted on Peter to get them out of it?

_I knew you'd take care of it._

And he had. That was what Peter did. Yes.

So once he made it back to Peter and freed him, Neal could pass out and leave everything in Peter's ultra-capable hands.

And if Peter wasn't okay—well . . . Neal couldn't think about that right now. Making elaborate and multiple contingency plans was a hallmark of his normal MO, but even he had his limits. That just wasn't an option his brain could conceive of. His mind got so far and then just whirred to a stop when he thought about what he would do if Peter weren't okay. Beyond that there was a kind of nothingness, a black hole that would swallow him up if he thought about it too much, so he was careful not to.

_Please let him be okay._

Again he followed the outside wall of the building, turning the corner and stumbling clumsily along the back wall, toward the door.

_There it is. It's not much further. This is good, _he told himself, trying to be optimistic as he drew in painful, shuddering gasps of air, struggling to catch his breath. _You made good time, so much better than when you were coming out_. By his guesstimate, it had probably been no more than a minute or two since he'd hung up on Diana.

The only worrisome part of that was that help was still a ways off. Their current location was outside his radius and thus not a place he could normally go. But he knew the city intimately, and simple geography—the distance between any help and this warehouse—meant that he was on his own for now. For a little while, at least, it was all up to him.

Finally, he'd arrived at the back entrance. Seeing the door, Neal was reminded of when they'd first arrived. When he'd gotten the door open, before this whole nightmare had started.

_Neal had removed his picks from his pocket with a flourish. Then he'd stopped, waiting a beat, pondering as he shifted his gaze from the leather case to Peter. "Hmm. Wait a minute."_

_A little smile flitted across Peter's face; he knew a choreographed scene when he saw one. "Yes?" _

"_I've just had an idea."_

"_Well, that's dangerous," Peter remarked wryly. _

_Neal gave him an eager look. "As a recent participant in Mozzie's training program, you're more than qualified to handle this, aren't you?"_

"_Actually, I was described as a 'difficult student,'" Peter noted with his trademark honesty._

"_But you did graduate. You did put your skills to use. Consider this a final exam," Neal suggested._

"_Oh, no," Peter answered, solemnly. "This is _your_ area."_

"_Well, of course," Neal said, rolling his eyes. "But think of it this way: who needs the practice more?"_

_Peter frowned. "I'd say you could use some practice. It's been a long time since I had you pick any locks."_

_Neal's smile faded just a bit, and Peter's frown grew. "Unless . . . what sort of lock-picking have you been doing to stay sharp, Neal?"_

_Neal hesitated, then opened his mouth, but Peter spoke first. "Don't answer that."_

"_Sounds like a plan," Neal agreed, giving a relieved nod._

_Peter waved a hand in the direction of the door. "I defer to you," he muttered, which was probably as close as he would ever get to openly praising Neal's lock-picking expertise._

_Smiling, Neal had walked over to the door. "Watch and learn. See if you can pick up a few pointers." _

_As he knelt down to examine the mechanism, Neal saw Peter shaking his head._

Flashing back to it now, he could see Peter in his mind's eye. Peter had been standing right _there, _leaning relaxed against the side of the building, carefully schooling his face into a nonchalant expression.

But when Neal had looked up a moment later, just a quick glimpse, he'd caught Peter smiling as he watched Neal work, an indulgent little grin on his face, in spite of himself.

It was such a contrast to the last time he'd seen Peter—handcuffed, tense, rigid with fear—that it made Neal's heart twist in his chest.

_Find him._

He stepped up, careful not to trip this time, through the doorway, back into the warehouse.

Back toward Peter.

_Peter would be okay. _

_He has to be, _Neal thought desperately. _He always is._

_TBC…._

_A/N - Ah, so many cheery, uplifting, holiday-themed stories on the site right now that are such a pleasure to read—and then there's (ahem) . . . __**this**__ story. ;-) Nothing says 'Happy Holidays' like grim tension, lives in jeopardy, and endless angst, right?_

_Anyway, thanks for sticking with me with through a tale that has been far from cheery and anything but uplifting to this point. As always, appreciate the encouragement from all of you followers and reviewers. Hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas! _


	11. Actual Magic

**Critical Hour**

**Chapter 11 – Actual Magic**

"_**Hope can be a powerful force. Maybe there's no actual magic in it, but when you know what you hope for most and hold it like a light within you, you can make things happen, almost like magic."  
**_― Laini Taylor, _Daughter of Smoke and Bone _

* * *

Now that he was back inside, the warehouse seemed darker than before. Neal welcomed it, letting his eyes adjust from the too-bright light outside and taking a moment to gather himself. He cradled his right arm against his chest as best he could, and wiped the blood from his left hand off on his suit. He had to be alert, in case Regal was awake and looking for him.

Then he continued, down the hallway, back toward where he'd left Peter.

Retracing his steps, he approached the doors he'd passed previously. With his hands free, Neal probably could have picked the locked one, but he didn't want to take the time. He didn't want anything to divert him from his goal of getting back to Peter, as quickly as he could manage it.

His steps sounded too loud in the quiet and he tried to modulate his footfalls, not easy given the pain shooting through his left ankle with every step. Silence was essential, though. If Regal were awake, Neal had to be the one to surprise him, and not the other way around. He couldn't let Regal get the upper hand on him again.

_And if he is awake, what will you do? _

Well, that answer was easy—he'd have to go after him. He'd have to take him down.

_With what?_

Neal stopped dead, swallowing hard and squeezing his eyes shut in dazed horror—at his own stupidity.

_Oh, shit. _

What had he been thinking? He had nothing, no weapon to use against Regal. He had one good hand and literally nothing else.

_What were you planning to do? Hold him at bay with one of your lockpicks? _

Neal looked around quickly, desperately, but there seemed to be nothing in this warehouse other than giant boxes and crates that were no help at all. Why the hell hadn't he gotten something from Darryl that he could use, even just as a club, to attack Regal, if he had to? Anything would have been helpful—a wrench, a tire iron, anything . . . even though he blanched at the idea of bludgeoning someone like that. Even though he wasn't even sure he could physically manage it right now . . . .

_Not smart, Neal. You're not thinking, and that can get you killed. Get you _both _killed.  
_

Well, no point in worrying about it now. And best not to waste time looking for something. It wouldn't matter once Peter was free, anyway, he told himself. He just had to find Peter. Peter was the priority.

_There's no time._

He started moving again. Then he remembered, with a little jolt, something else.

_Regal called somebody. _Peter's voice, terse and frightened. _He's developed a very . . . unsettling, personal interest in you. They're planning to drug you and kidnap you . . . . _

He winced. Another mistake. He should have told Diana about that. Told her more bad guys were on the way. She'd want to know that, wouldn't she?

_Of course she would. But you didn't bother to mention it. Another brilliant move. _

He'd been so consumed with worry for Peter that he'd forgotten. And again, he'd remembered too late to do anything about it.

Once more, Peter's words from earlier echoed in his mind, but this time they were calm and reassuring. _Let's concentrate on something you can do._

Like finding Peter. _That, you can do. Just concentrate on that._

Neal kept going.

_Peter should be here somewhere._ Neal couldn't remember how many aisles he'd passed—_stupid, you should have counted, you always do that_—but he instinctively felt he had to be close.

_Unless . . . oh, Jesus. What if Regal had woken up and . . . what? _

_Killed Peter and moved the body, _a horrible, rational voice in his mind replied.

He swallowed convulsively. _Don't think like that. Peter's here. You just haven't gotten to him yet. _

* * *

Peter had lost feeling in his hands a while ago. There had been pain, then tingling pain, then numbness. Which wasn't so bad, really. The rest of him still hurt, though—wrists, arms, shoulders, his neck, too. The rigidity and stress of his position felt like it was straining just about every muscle and joint in his body.

He wondered how long he'd been here. He was really sweating now; the warehouse was stuffy, with little ventilation. And his mind was starting to wander . . . .

Peter wouldn't have imagined that someone in a position as excruciating as his was could fall asleep. Or pass out. But as time passed, as his exhaustion grew, as his energy drained away and his hope faded, he was starting to wonder if it was possible.

He was starting to be afraid that he already had.

Sometimes, when he blinked his eyes open after resting his head on his arms, he got the uneasy feeling that he'd drifted away, that he'd had his eyes closed just a little too long. Reality seemed to shimmer around the edges, for a moment, like perhaps it wasn't reality after all. Maybe it was blending into dreams or hallucinations, so seamlessly that he started to get nervous that it might be happening and he wouldn't even realize it.

_You can't let yourself go. You need your wits about you._

But for what, exactly?

_The next thing you're going to hear is the sound of a whole cadre of NYPD announcing themselves. You're going to see them coming around the corner of those shelves . . . ._

_Or maybe it'll be Jones and Diana, with the Harvard crew. Neal won't be with them, they'll have made sure that he's already in the ambulance, being looked after . . . ._

_Or maybe it will be Regal's crew, dragging an unconscious Neal with them, _his pessimistic inner voice retorted.

_No. _Peter closed his eyes against that last thought, trying to banish it from his brain.

Once, he thought he saw Neal, standing right in front of him, a sad little smile on his face as he eyed Peter's cuffed wrists.

_Still here, I see. _Neal's voice was gentle. _Well, Mozzie's training program didn't prepare you for this. Just watch and learn, Peter. See if you can pick up a few pointers._

Peter started, vision clearing, and found himself looking around for Neal. Realizing that, for an instant, he'd been _h__oping _to see Neal.

No Neal.

_That hadn't been real. Had it?_

_Of course not,_ he told himself sternly, taking a deep breath. _ You're dreaming. Or imagining things. And anyway, the last thing you should want to see is Neal. It's too dangerous for him. You shouldn't be hoping for that. Get a grip on yourself, for God's sake. _

He hadn't been here long enough to start hallucinating. Or, at least, he didn't think he had. Unless he really had fallen asleep, somehow, which meant his sense of time was completely unreliable. So did that mean he _was_ dreaming, after all?

When that feeling became oppressive, he forced himself to look over at Regal, lying there, bloody and unmoving. _That _was reality, and the sight of that bastard helped to wake Peter up, to clear away any cobwebs that might be clouding his mind.

Increasingly, thoughts of Elizabeth intruded on his attempts to concentrate. Visualizing El was a welcome distraction, but he couldn't allow himself that indulgence for too long. Because the more he thought about her, the more despair crept in - that those thoughts of her were the last ones he'd have, and they were such a poor substitute for seeing her, for feeling the warmth of her in his arms.

He thought of the special evening he'd arranged for the two of them. If he didn't get out of this, it would never come to fruition—in fact, he realized with a jolt that El would never even know what he'd planned.

Peter wasn't sure why that bothered him so much. The overall likelihood of his dying should overwhelm every other concern, but it suddenly seemed particularly cruel that Elizabeth would never know how anxious he'd been to do something just for her.

Except . . . he remembered suddenly, _Neal knew_. If Neal survived, if Regal didn't take him, Neal would tell her. He'd make sure that El would know, at least.

Neal's words from earlier, when he'd been complaining about Peter's driving, echoed in his mind. The comment had been lighthearted, but now it was chillingly prescient.

_I would imagine that your dying—and missing dinner—would make Elizabeth awfully angry._

_Hey, it's damned hard to get a reservation at that place; I'd hope she'd go anyway._

Where had that lump in his throat come from? No, thinking about Elizabeth wasn't helping.

Not that the other paths his mind traveled were any more comforting.

He worried about what would happen when Regal woke up. He worried about whether Neal had collapsed somewhere out of sight. He worried about Regal's associates showing up, and the horrifying fate that lay in store for Neal. The more time that ticked by, he knew, the more likely all of those nightmare scenarios became.

Because worrying about what might happen was counterproductive and pointless, Peter forced himself to focus on other things. He drafted a mental report of the incident, knowing it might be the only one he'd ever make. He replayed every moment—from when he'd realized that Neal had been gone too long, to his first sight of Regal holding Neal at gunpoint, to all that had followed. He analyzed Regal's actions and his own reactions, assessing what he could have—or should have—done to prevent himself from being outmaneuvered by Regal. To prevent himself from ending up trapped and helpless.

Hard as he tried—and his instinct was always to think about what he could have done differently—he could see no obvious alternative course of action. Really, apart from being more vigilant and keeping Neal in sight from the beginning—or bringing backup in the first place—Peter could envision very few other options.

He could have tried to shoot Regal.

_Or you could have shot Neal_, a little voice whispered from a dark corner of his mind.

Peter had considered firing on Regal during the initial confrontation. But the odds had not been in his favor. With Regal crouching, hidden behind Neal and the shelves, the target had been too small, the chance of accidentally hitting Neal far too great. Coupled with the fact that Regal's finger was poised on the trigger, Peter had weighed this option and rejected it.

Too much risk that Neal would end up dead.

And Regal had been right. Peter couldn't have lived with that.

The second option was disturbing on a whole other level. In the heat of the moment, it had flashed through Peter's mind, but he hadn't given it serious consideration.

The thought of purposefully shooting Neal made his blood run cold.

And yet . . . and yet. Wouldn't it have been worth it, if it saved Neal's life?

_And your life, too. Don't forget that._

Regal likely would have been caught by surprise. Though there was still the risk that _he _would have fired, as well, Peter knew . . . .

Neal would probably have collapsed and maybe taken Regal down with him, or at least given Peter more to shoot at. Hell, the bullet might have gone through Neal and given Peter a two-fer. But even if didn't, Peter would have had a better shot at Regal. With him out of commission, Peter could have tended Neal, could have called for help.

He thought about the overwhelming guilt he would have felt, watching Neal bleeding from a bullet wound that_ he'd _caused. Sitting with Neal in the hospital. That was assuming the gunshot wound didn't kill him.

_I'm a good shot, _his mind answered. _I can shoot to wound._

_Shooting to wound is a loser's game. _It was the Academy firearms instructor's voice in his head, now. _Anytime you draw your weapon, and especially when you fire it, you have to be prepared to take a life._

Because the thought of killing Neal was something he couldn't countenance, Peter ran through the imaginary scenario where he wounded Neal and managed to take down Regal.

_Sure, you'd feel guilty. But you'd be with him. He'd be alive to recover. And there wouldn't have been any chance of Neal being drugged, kidnapped and subjected to God knew what._

Peter swallowed hard, letting his head fall back tiredly. What was the phrase Keller had used? _Pis aller._

A move of last resort. Shooting Neal Caffrey would definitely qualify.

The tension in his neck, the agony in his shoulders and wrists, was nearly unbearable. Peter lifted his head up again, groaning a little with the effort, to glance at Regal—_still out, thank God_–and then let his head fall forward, leaning it against his upraised arms.

_If you had it to do all over again, would you have done it? _Could_ you have done it?_

They were questions Peter couldn't answer. Then again, if his worst fears were realized, he wouldn't have to worry about them—or anything else—for much longer.

Regal would take care of that.

* * *

Neal slowed down. Assuming he really was getting close, he needed to be careful. Cautiously he peered around the corner, but saw only an empty row. Not this one, then. He reached the next aisle and looked around the edge of the shelves, careful to keep himself hidden.

_Finally._

As it turned out, the tableau was just as he'd left it. Peter was still blessedly in one piece; Regal was still blessedly unconscious on the floor nearby. Neal let out a sigh of relief; the rush of emotion, of knowing that Peter was okay, left him feeling almost light-headed for a second.

Peter didn't see him at first; he was facing the shelves, in profile. Neal observed, wide-eyed, realizing uncomfortably that he was catching Peter in a rare moment of weakness. The agent was always in control, but not now. Neal felt as if he were viewing something forbidden, something he should never have been permitted to see.

When he'd left Peter before, still woozy and trying to get his bearings, Neal hadn't really appreciated just how agonizing his position was. Peter was standing, of course, with not only his arms, but his whole body pulled taut by the cuffs that were hooked around the shelves, far up above his head. It had to hurt like hell—and would hurt even worse once the circulation was restored.

Peter's head rested on his arms. He looked down at Regal for an instant. Then he let his head fall back for a moment before leaning onto his arms again.

Neal's heart lurched in his chest at the sight. Everything about Peter's posture and body language spoke of hopelessness, of futility, of defeat—everything that Peter wasn't. Neal felt a fresh wave of fury at Regal, that he'd reduced Peter to _this_.

Well, no matter. Neal would fix _that_. He cleared his throat.

"Still hangin' around, huh?"

Peter's whole body jerked sharply at the unexpected sound of Neal's voice breaking the quiet. Even from this far away, Neal could see him wince.

_Okay, surprising him had not been a good idea. _

Peter lifted his head and stared at Neal. For just an instant, he looked like someone who'd seen a ghost, or who'd awoken suddenly from a dream, eyes widening in stunned disbelief. It was telling that the next thing he did was to look immediately at Regal, assuring that he was still out, before swiveling his gaze back to his consultant.

He didn't look happy to see Neal. A whole range of emotions played swiftly across his face—surprise, then alarm, then anger—but happiness was notably absent.

_Uh oh._

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?" Peter exploded. His voice was fierce; his face had turned into a rictus of fury.

Neal had plenty of experience with a frustrated, annoyed Peter. In fact, sometimes he liked to provoke Peter just for the hell of it—not that he'd ever cop to doing so. But Neal couldn't ever remember seeing him this enraged before.

This was raw and visceral and . . . scary, because it didn't feel like the Peter he knew. Peter was cool under pressure; he could get angry, of course, but it was always with a purpose and always kept in check. But this . . . this was Peter not just angry, but _incensed,_ this was a Peter near to frantic, and Neal shrank from it instinctively. Without thinking, he moved away from the shelf he'd been using for support. He needed to show Peter that he was okay to be here, that he didn't need Peter to protect him.

"What'm I doing here? I'm helping you." Damn it. Walking normally was proving to be harder than he'd thought it would be.

"And who's going to help you?" Peter hissed back. _Where have I heard that before_, Neal thought hazily. The words sounded familiar, but he couldn't think from where, what with his memory being strangely uncooperative. Oh well, he didn't have time to worry about it now, anyway.

Apparently, Peter hadn't expected an answer, because he kept right on talking.

"_You can barely walk,_" he spat. Peter's voice was low and dangerous, a frightening mixture of accusation, fear and just plain, full-on wrath.

Well, hell. That was true. Which meant, given his policy of trying really hard not to lie to Peter, that Neal couldn't deny it.

Peter was nothing if not observant, as Neal had learned, occasionally to his detriment, over the years. In retrospect, it probably would have been too much to hope for that Peter wouldn't notice that Neal had all the grace and coordination of someone on a two-day bender.

"Well, some of us haven't had the luxury of just standing around all day," Neal said, trying to simultaneously joke and deflect. Peter, if possible, looked even more irate. A muscle moved in his clenched jaw, the little muscle that twitched sometimes, usually when Peter was angry.

_Yeah, not smart, Neal. Peter's pissed that he's in this position and you just emphasized it._

"Sorry," he muttered. Since there was no point to trying to fool Peter, Neal admitted defeat and let himself balance against the shelves again. He stopped to ride out a sharp, sudden wave of pain that left him momentarily breathless. "That was—in bad taste. Not myself at the moment."

"Exactly my point," Peter said fiercely. He exhaled, long and slow, like a man on his last nerve. Which, come to think of it, Neal realized belatedly, he surely was. Not only was he in pain, but he'd been stuck here, chained up, humiliated, and helpless, with nothing to do but brood while he waited for Regal to wake up and take out his homicidal frustrations on him.

For an unadulterated control freak like Peter, this probably qualified as his worst nightmare.

Not to mention the added worry about whether Neal had passed out in a hallway somewhere. To be fair, given that Peter was, well . . . Peter, _that_ prospect was probably far more worrisome for him than his own predicament.

Neal took a careful, shallow breath—he'd learned the folly of trying to breathe too deeply on his journey here—and started moving again. Peter took his eyes off Neal's shambling progress, looking beyond him for a moment, his gaze searching. "Where's the backup?"

"On the way." This aisle was a lot longer than it looked. "I called Diana and everything."

"_Jesus, Neal,_" Peter said, a little of the anger leeching out of his voice, replaced with the exasperation that Neal was used to. It was weird, to hear that particular note in his voice and not see Peter rubbing his forehead in frustration. Those two things always went together, in Neal's experience.

He was looking at Neal again, but with an odd, far-away look in his eyes. Neal couldn't know that Peter wasn't really seeing him; instead, Peter was seeing Regal and hearing the man's voice.

_The correct term is 'masterpieces.' Plural._

_That tasty morsel is my new protégé. _

_I can think of all sorts of creative ways for Neal to prove his worth to me._

_I bet he's enchanting when he begs._

_Regal smiling that terrifying smile and saying, 'I want to,' as he kicked Neal again._

_Don't I always share?_

Watching Peter, Neal noticed that his gaze had dropped down, focusing on Neal's chest. Neal glanced down himself, wondering what Peter was looking at.

When Neal realized, he stared in shock, inhaling sharply, painfully. _How the hell did I not notice that?_

His shirt was halfway open, his tie was hanging down, and his chest had three carefully formed scratches, right in the center. _Courtesy of Regal, no doubt._

_Goddamned fucking twisted bastard._

Without thinking, Neal reached up clumsily with his left hand to rebutton the shirt. Suddenly he felt way too exposed.

Peter saw it. Neal immediately wished he'd just left the damn buttons alone, because now Peter looked like he wanted to recoil away in disgust.

"You're not _safe_ here," Peter burst out. His frustration had morphed into something that sounded alarmingly like despair, like desperation, and that did send a little chill down Neal's spine because it was so very _not-Peter_.

"Neither are you," Neal said absently. He was close enough to Peter, finally, to start pondering the question of what to do next—more specifically, how to get him out of those damn cuffs.

He'd been so focused on just dragging himself to this point, on making sure that Peter was okay, that he hadn't really considered the how-to-free-Peter problem like he should have. Like he _would_ have . . . _if only the clanging in his head weren't so damn loud, if only the pain in his chest, his ribs didn't occasionally threaten to take his breath away, if only . . . ._

Peter ignored Neal's retort and looked heavenward, as if perhaps he'd find some patience there. "Damnit, Neal, I told you what he did to you. What he's _going _to do. Remember that? That's why I gave you an order. I told you to leave."

"And I followed it," Neal said, in his most reasonable voice, before adding, "You didn't say not to come back."

"That was very clearly implied—"

Okay, he really couldn't let that one go. "_Implied?_" Neal repeated, incredulous. "I think you know by now the need to be _explicit _where I'm concerned." He chewed his lip, assessing how he'd achieve the angle he needed to get Peter unshackled.

Peter groaned in frustration. "Yeah, because any loophole that's available to you, you're gonna drive a truck through."

_Or have a truck driven at me . . . best to keep that to myself, though, _Neal thought prudently. He managed to dredge up a smile. "Now that's the Peter Burke I know."

"And I thought I was pretty goddamned _explicit_ about what that bastard wants to do to you, Neal," Peter growled. He shot a forbidding look at him, but Neal was eying his wrists and very deliberately refusing to meet Peter's gaze.

"God, you look horrible," Peter said without thinking, because, really, Neal did. The smile on his face was a disturbingly pale imitation of his normal insouciant grin. Neal was pale, bloody, bruised, unsteady, and looked generally like a man on the verge of collapse.

"And that's _more_ of the Peter Burke I know," Neal said, trying for a wry expression and not quite succeeding. "Always pumpin' up the old ego."

He glanced at Peter, gaze sharpening. "What did he do to you?"

"Huh?" Peter asked, confused. "Besides the obvious? Nothing." The seeping blood from his wrists was his own fault, and hardly worth discussing, given Neal's injuries.

"You—you're bleeding," Neal said, voice tight as he gestured to the red smears on Peter's shirt.

"Oh, that," Peter said, catching on. Neal hadn't noticed the blood on his wrists, and Peter wasn't going to call his attention to it. "No. That's not mine—it's yours."

Neal frowned in bewilderment.

"You wiped the blood off on my shirt," Peter explained, concern flooding through him at Neal's obvious lack of recollection. He wondered what else Neal had forgotten about the day's events. Peter mentally ticked off the symptoms Neal had exhibited—loss of consciousness, blurred vision, confusion, nausea, memory loss—and tried not to worry about what they could mean.

"Oh. Sorry about that," Neal said. Again, he looked slightly embarrassed—and wasn't it just like Neal to _still_ be more worried about Peter's shirt than his own dire condition?

"I told you to do it," Peter informed him impatiently. "But that's not important—"

"Mmm. Wasn't one of my favorites, anyway," Neal interjected, already distracted. He was sifting through options, weighing what to do, but a little shocked at how slow and disjointed his thought processes were at the moment.

_Wait, _he thought. _The gun. Get the gun, and you can just sit here and point it at Regal til help comes. He wakes up, he threatens Peter, you shoot him. _

A simple plan, but it should work. Surely he was due for one of his plans to work today, right?

As quickly as he could, Neal limped over to where he thought the gun had ended up, trying to remember the spot.

"What happened to your leg?" Peter asked, his voice rough with worry.

"Tripped going out - just twisted my ankle a little, 's all." Neal held onto the shelf and slid down. Then he reached underneath, biting back a curse at the pain the awkward position was causing him.

"What are you—?"

"Trying to get the gun," Neal said, not waiting for Peter to finish. "Shit." _He couldn't reach it. Not good. _Vertigo hit again as the agony in his shoulder and his ribs redoubled. Neal had to close his eyes for a moment until the sick feeling dissipated. To buy time, he wiped his forehead, hoping Peter wouldn't notice that he'd had to take a minute to collect himself. He felt dangerously close to passing out again, and he simply couldn't allow that to happen.

"Okay," he said, making sure his voice sounded relaxed. _Get up. _"Can't quite reach it. Time for Plan B."

Neal rose to his feet, hauling himself up as carefully he could, and made it over to where Peter stood. He looked up, studying the agent's cuffed wrists again.

Peter eyed him warily. "And what's Plan B?"

"If I can't get the gun, then I'll have to get you."

"And how the hell are you going to do that?"

"I come up there and cut you loose," Neal said, in as breezy a tone as he could conjure up.

He was good, very good, and thus proud of the fact that nothing betrayed how very _long _this climb was beginning to look to him—now that he was staring at it up close.

"What? You call that a plan?" Peter's voice rose again.

Neal couldn't help smiling, because it sounded _exactly_ like the Peter-voice in his mind—the one he'd heard just as he jumped out in front of Darryl's truck.

_The one he didn't want to admit he'd been afraid he might never hear again._

"—is not funny," Peter was saying; he had no idea why Neal was smiling, but the sight of it was making his rage bubble over anew. "This is _so_ far from funny that—"

"I know. It's just . . . oh, never mind," Neal said. "Doesn't matter. Least I didn't suggest shooting the cuffs off you."

"Yeah, _this_ plan is utter genius compared to _that_ one," Peter muttered.

"Hey, when I can see straight, I'm a much better shot than you know."

Actually, Peter did know—but one flashback per day to the memory of Neal with a gun in his hand was quite enough for Peter. So he played along.

"I don't think I _want_ to know."

"Ignorance isn't always bliss, Peter," Neal informed him. "Anyway, you just relax while I come up there and pick those cuffs for you."

"No. You can't do that."

"Peter, I've been picking locks since I was . . . well, for a long, long time."

"Oh, really? I had no idea," Peter said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's the climbing part I'm talking about. For starters."

Neal sighed. "It's _shelves_, Peter." He made an upward, climbing-type motion with his good hand. "Like climbing a ladder. I could do that with one hand tied behind my back."

"Which is convenient, since I notice you're not using that right hand much."

"You don't miss a trick, do you?" Neal muttered. "Yeah, the less I have to use it, the better, but—"

"And getting up here is going to be a damn sight more difficult than climbing a ladder—"

"Well, thank you, Mr. Sunshine," Neal said, rolling his eyes. "You got a better idea? I can't reach them from here."

"Sure," Peter said angrily. "A better idea would be for you to get the hell out of here, go somewhere safe, and wait for help."

Neal shook his head. "Not gonna happen, Peter. Not until I get you loose and then, I have to warn you, you may be carrying me out of here."

Since Peter could see Neal was going to continue to be his stubborn, insubordinate self, he gave in - for the moment. "How about one of those boxes? If you drag one over, you could stand on it."

Neal pursed his lips, thinking. "Hmm, not a bad idea."

It wasn't either, except that all of the nearby boxes were large and very heavy. In his weakened state, with only one good arm, Neal struggled to get purchase.

Peter watched him try valiantly, grunting with pain and exertion as he tried to shift a nearby crate far enough to make it useful. Again, Peter was made acutely aware of how impotent, how _useless_ he was.

Neal needed help and there wasn't a damn thing Peter could do.

The only good thing right now was that at least Regal remained unconscious. Well, in addition to the fact that he'd told his colleagues not to hurry—and that, as yet, there had been no sign of them. That was something positive, as well. _Hopefully, they were going to take their time,_ Peter thought. _Hopefully they were the slowest goddamn criminals on the face of the earth._

Speaking of time, enough had passed without any motion from Regal that Peter had actually allowed himself to hope that the man really was seriously injured, maybe comatose. Maybe he'd never wake up, like Peter's college friend.

Glancing over at Regal for what felt like the hundredth time, Peter wondered if they could really be that lucky.

After a few moments of fruitless effort by his consultant, trying to shift the boxes, Peter finally said, "Neal," at the same time that Neal said, panting, "This isn' working."

He stopped and reached up with his left hand to mop sweat and blood from his forehead, grimacing. "Guess climbing it is, then."

Peter had to try, one more time. "No, Neal. I'm ordering you to leave."

"Yeah, you did that already," Neal pointed out. "Filled my quota of orders for the day."

"For all the good it did," Peter sighed.

"Look, you can't order me to do the same thing twice. That's a—that's double jeopardy."

"It is _not_, and you—" Peter broke off with a groan, because he'd just realized that in the middle of this deadly serious situation, with both their lives at risk, that Neal was _teasing_ him. "You know that."

Neal smiled slyly. "Also, just to set the record straight, I didn't disobey an order from _you_."

It only took Peter a few seconds to grasp his meaning.

"Diana. _Diana_ told you to stay put, didn't she?"

Neal nodded slow assent, a worried look crossing his face for the first time. Peter didn't miss the fact that Neal seemed more scared of the prospect of Diana than of anything Regal might do to him. "If I haven't already broken some bones. I think she'll take care of it."

_Time for another tactic_, Peter thought.

"Fine, Neal. I'm not ordering, I'm asking. I'm asking you to please leave. Just—just go."

"And I'm refusing," Neal said, a rare expression of real anger on his face when he looked up at Peter. "You would _never_ leave me like that."

The fury blazing in his eyes, and the quiet defiance in his voice, took Peter aback. He'd seen Neal sullen, petulant, wheedling, when he didn't get what he wanted, but real anger was unusual. Anger meant a loss of control, and Neal strived, always, to be in control.

Plus, anger or open defiance generally didn't work on Peter, and Neal was smart enough to know that.

Peter met his consultant's gaze and was silent. Of course, Peter would never abandon Neal in such a predicament. But he could have said, _T__hat's different._ And, to Peter, it was. He was a trained agent, with a sworn duty. It was his job to take risks and to protect the members of his team.

And Neal _was _different. Neal was in Peter's custody, and, as a consultant, he was regularly sent out into the field with none of the means of defense that agents had - with no weapon and no training. So Peter always felt, keenly, a heightened sense of responsibility for his safety.

All of that was true. But he knew very well that none of it would matter to Neal—proof of just how far the two of them had come—and so Peter said nothing.

"You told me what Regal did to me, earlier—yes, _explicitly_." Neal's voice was calm again, sounding more like himself. He'd forced himself back under control. "Well, he could do the same things to you, Peter. He could . . . do worse." Neal swallowed hard. "He _will _do worse. You think I'd be okay sitting outside on the curb while he—while he's in here, shooting you?"

"Of course not, but—"

"That's why I came back," Neal shot back, as if Peter hadn't spoken. "_And why I'm not leaving here without you._"

He was still staring at Peter, eyes alight with that striking, searing intensity, and it was Peter who found he had to look away.

Not waiting for an answer, Neal looked up, scanning the area he had to climb, and then moved toward the shelves.

Peter watched anxiously. Finally he said, "Wait."

Neal's expression was pained. "Peter, I already told you I'm not leaving. And we don't have time to argue—"

"I'm not," Peter said evenly. "I want to know how you're going to get the cuffs off."

Tilting his head at Peter, Neal raised an eyebrow, relieved to be back on familiar ground.

"Do you even have to ask?" he replied, a smug smile on his face. With his good hand, he patted the pocket where he'd replaced his picks after using them to open the warehouse door, then withdrew them and waved them at Peter.

_Still as cocky as ever_, Peter thought. "I know how proud you are of your extralegal skills. But these are my cuffs. There _is_ a key handy."

Neal's face fell. "Oh. Right," he said, deflated. "You know, picking locks is not illegal, Peter. And using the key is just . . . boring."

"Depends where and when you pick'em," Peter said, not willing to concede this particular point. "You can practice your skills another time. Did you forget that you've only got one good arm? And nobody likes a show-off."

" 'Cept sometimes you like it when I show off," Neal said under his breath.

Peter ignored that, since denying it would start a whole new argument that that they didn't have time for—and that he'd probably lose anyway, just like the last one. "Just humor me and get the damn key. For God's sake, be _smart, _Neal."

"Fine, fine," Neal huffed impatiently, putting the picks into his outside pocket and then fumbling in Peter's. "We'll do it your way. The unexciting, humdrum, pedestrian, handcuffs-for-dummies way, because—"

Peter shook his head. "Yeah, because what this day really needs is more _excitement_."

Neal made a little chuffing noise under his breath that was probably meant to be a laugh.

Inwardly, Peter worried that Neal was being entirely too cavalier, given the gravity of the situation. Then again, Peter had noticed, since he'd been working with Neal, that being a general wiseass was one of his CI's preferred ways of dealing with pressure.

Come to think of it, you could say it was Neal's preferred way of dealing with almost _any_ situation.

Having retrieved the handcuff key and put it in his pocket, Neal stopped and stared at Regal thoughtfully.

Peter saw him. "What? What is it?"

"Maybe I should tie him up first."

"With what?"

"Um . . ." Neal's voice trailed off and he paused. "How 'bout my tie?"

"One-handed?"

Neal grimaced. "I could give it a shot."

Peter thought about it, but only for a second. "No," he said. "What kind of a knot can you tie with one arm, anyway? Stay away from him. He hasn't moved a muscle since you knocked him out." _Well, except for that one time when he might have moved, but you weren't sure . . . maybe you imagined it._

"But I could try—"

"_No,_" Peter said, urgency audible in his voice. He couldn't shake the thought that, like in some fairy tale, the mere act of touching Regal would bring him back to wakefulness. "When he started . . . going after you," Peter hesitated and cleared his throat as Neal looked at him curiously. "That's when _you_ woke up. I don't want to take the chance of him doing the same."

Even half out of it, Neal could sense Peter's unease—and that this point was not up for discussion. "Okay, 'f you say so."

"I do." Peter had another thought. "When you get close, maybe you can just hand me the key."

Neal paused, frowning. "Can you feel your hands?"

Peter hesitated, then had to admit, "No." The truth was, his hands didn't even feel like they were attached to his body anymore. They might as well have belonged to someone else, for all the control he had over them.

"That's what I thought," Neal said. "Harder for you. Easier if I just do it."

Peter didn't think anything about what Neal was about to attempt could be called_ easy_, but he didn't argue. He just watched in silent concern, as Neal began, with agonizing care, to work his way up the shelves.

Neal could see the tension, all the familiar telltale indicators, as Peter moved into full worry mode once again. "Relax," he told him, aiming to provide a distraction. "Done this many times. You too, probably. Didn't you climb trees when you were a kid?"

"Sure, but never with a concussion and a broken collarbone."

"Well, just because _you_ took the easy way out doesn't—" Neal broke off, gasping as he stilled. The knuckles on his left hand were white where they gripped the edge of the shelf.

"You okay?" Peter asked, voice sharp.

"Yeah, just . . . moved the wrong way," Neal said through clenched teeth, breathing shallowly. He'd frozen where he was, resting his useless right side against the boxes he was scaling.

"I don't know how you're even still conscious," Peter muttered darkly.

"Maybe . . . I'm just that good," Neal said, quoting Peter _(when Peter had been him,_ he recalled_)._

Peter let out a sound that was half groan, half snort, and all exasperation.

"Actually," Neal said, serious now, "I have a very hard head. One time I got hit trying to—" he stopped and cleared his throat. "Well, details aren't important, but trust me: I've got a hard head."

"Literally or figuratively?"

"Both, of course," Neal said without hesitation.

"I would never have guessed," Peter retorted.

Neal shook his head. "Your sarcasm really _does_ go up in proportion to your stress level," he said, face solemn.

Peter glared at him and decided to change the subject. Neal had started moving again, but even more slowly now. Peter's heart was in his throat as he watched Neal haul himself up, inch by inch, basically one-handed, and in enough pain that he'd mostly given up trying to hide it.

"So who cut the wire?"

"Huh?"

"Your wrists."

"Oh, that . . . um, kindness of strangers. Really good guy named Darryl." Neal paused. "Though maybe he was only trying to make up for the fact that he almost ran me over."

"_What?_"

The shocked note in Peter's voice was hard to miss. Neal stopped to catch his breath and glance at Peter. He looked dumbfounded. Or horrified. Maybe both; it was kind of hard to tell from this angle.

"Well, if we're being honest—and I know how important _that_ is to you," Neal said, "he really couldn' help it, not with the way I—"

Neal halted, right in the middle of the thought. He'd just realized, much too late—he blamed his muzzy brain—that he was supposed to have kept his mouth shut about this part. Peter was angry enough, and worried enough, as it was. No sense giving him another thing to go ballistic about.

Peter looked like he did when he thought Neal had stolen or forged something. "_The way you_ _what_?"

Neal didn't answer right away.

Now Peter looked like he did when he _knew_ Neal had stolen or forged something. "Neal, what did you do?"

"Didn' do anything wrong," Neal said, his tone defensive.

"Oh, you never do," Peter said grimly. "According to you."

"I really need to focus on this right now, Peter," Neal evaded.

"Sure. You just don't want to discuss the fact that you—what? Ran out into the street and got hit by a car?"

"Truck," Neal murmured, in a barely-audible voice.

"_Truck?_" Peter repeated, horrified. "_God, Neal._"

"Desperate times, Peter. I was—well, I needed to attract attention. Somehow." Neal thought about telling Peter how he'd heard the agent's voice in his head, mocking his plan. He doubted Peter would find it amusing, though.

About to reply, Peter found he had to swallow first. Because a large lump had suddenly come out of nowhere and lodged in his throat.

He thought about all the closed-minded agents at the FBI who wouldn't trust an ex-con, about the snide, barbed comments they sometimes made about Neal.

About how very, very wrong they were. Every goddamned one of them.

And most of all, he thought about Neal, risking _everything_ to save him—so desperate that he'd jumped in front of a truck, for God's sake. Jeopardizing himself again, just by being here, with Regal lying a few feet away.

What did you say to someone who'd raced out into traffic to help you? Peter knew very well what he was supposed to say: _How could you? You shouldn't have. Don't do anything like that ever again. _His natural instinct was always, always to scold Neal for just this kind of reckless behavior, but the emotion welling up inside of Peter wouldn't let him speak the words.

After all, Neal had done it for him.

What Peter really wanted to express was appreciation for Neal's unconditional loyalty, a loyalty that was almost frightening in its intensity. He wanted to explain that he wasn't even surprised, not really, because Neal's actions only served to validate everything Peter secretly believed about Neal, all the faith and trust he'd placed in him, in spite of the ups and downs they'd had. That despite Neal's past—the past that so many others couldn't dismiss—_this _was an aspect of Neal's character that gave Peter endless hopes for the man's future.

Peter wanted to blurt all of that out. Except . . .

_Except that he couldn't find the words to say it properly, to do it justice._

He didn't even know where to start.

So, instead, Peter caught Neal's eye, giving him a long and (he hoped) meaningful look. He took a deep breath and muttered, "Thanks, Neal." As a small concession to his guilty conscience, he did shake his head in a sort of disbelieving, _you-shouldn't-have-done-that _gesture.

"Why, you're welcome," Neal said lightly, just barely managing to cover his surprise that Peter had refrained from yet another lecture about reckless, stupid risk-taking. "Not that you need to thank me; in fact, now you're making _me_ nervous." He shot a quick, knowing smile in Peter's direction.

It was uncanny—and sometimes, for Peter, alarming—how well Neal could see through him. But in this moment, Peter was glad. Because he realized that Neal, perceptive as ever, had read on Peter's face the emotions he was feeling but hadn't been able to put into words.

"And you're . . . you're okay?" Peter asked apprehensively.

"Hardly felt it," Neal hastened to assure him. "He slammed on the brakes and just kinda nicked me. Hitting the ground was probably the worst part . . . ."

Peter decided he really didn't need any more details right now.

* * *

When he got to the height of Peter's hands, Neal stopped, breathing heavily, and said, "Okay."

Peter could see the problem. With his right hand more or less useless and his left hand the only thing allowing him to cling to the shelves, Neal had no way to pull out the key and unlock the cuffs. To do that, he'd have to let go. He'd fall.

"Hand me the key," Peter said instantly, without thinking.

"Can't," Neal said. "Can't let go." Groaning, he tried to wrap his left arm around the shelf support and reach into his pocket with his hand, but he couldn't make the positioning work. And even if he could get the key, he wouldn't be able to maneuver it where it needed to be.

Neal paused and then muttered, almost to himself, "Gonna have to . . . get up in there." To Peter's ears, the cocksure confidence of a few moments ago had vanished.

In the end, Neal had to actually hoist himself _onto_ the shelf, laying on top of the boxes and cramming his body into the small space between the boxes and the next shelf up. It was a painstaking process involving lots of small, slow, jerky movements that hurt Peter just to watch. He could only imagine what it felt like for Neal, since he'd had stopped talking. Save for a few muffled curses and some grunting, Neal had gone completely silent.

Finally, somehow, Neal finished levering himself up, lying flat on the boxes, to where he could angle over to the locks in the cuffs. He lay there motionless, trying to even out his breathing and banish the little black spots that were intruding on his vision.

Peter waited anxiously. "You okay?" Which he knew was a really asinine thing to say because Neal was anything but _okay._

"Fantastic," Neal said through gritted teeth.

He had been vaguely aware that the contortions needed to get himself up onto the shelf would be painful. But he hadn't realized how goddamned much it was going to hurt to lie on his chest, the pressure it would put on his ribs, not to mention his broken shoulder or collarbone or whatever the hell it was. _Christ_. The pain had ratcheted up into something that blinded him, that took even the air around him away, so that every ounce of energy had to be channeled into the formerly simple act of breathing. He had to fight just to get air into his lungs.

He'd never take breathing for granted, ever again.

_Don't think about it. You can't afford to. Not now._

He steeled himself and shifted so that he could reach down toward his pocket, fishing around for the handcuff key. He was careful to press his lips together to keep any sounds from escaping. Best not to stress Peter out any more than he already was.

_The hard part's over, anyway. The climbing. Now you're so close to the whole passing out part, where you let Peter fix everything. All you have to do is unlock the cuffs. With the key, for chrissake. Piece of cake—a five-year-old could do it. Then you can just let go, let everything fade away . . . ._

As the seconds stretched out, Peter asked, "Problem?" Neal could hear the edge in his voice, the note of worry that Peter was trying to hide.

"No . . . just trying to find it," Neal said, trying to sound blithe even as he realized it was probably a lost cause.

It was true, he was trying to find the key, but he also needed time to draw in air, to breathe shallowly through the pain in his shoulder that had blossomed anew and felt as if were expanding into a vise that encircled his chest, constricting his ribs to the point where he felt as if he might suffocate.

The dizziness was back in earnest, also, and he had to close his eyes because the world had started to spin, way too fast. He was afraid he might throw up again, and wouldn't that be just _great_ if he got sick all over Peter . . . .

He'd been trying to reach into his pocket, but now, to his alarm, he found that he had to use his left hand to hold on tightly instead, because if he didn't, he might fall off the shelves, they were moving _that_ fast because of how quickly the world was spinning, and he couldn't let that happen, because there was no way in hell he could make that climb again, and if he fell, it would be all over . . . .

Neal hadn't realized just how close he was to passing out until he heard Peter. Or maybe he _had_ zoned out momentarily, because the urgency in Peter's voice sounded like he'd been trying to get Neal's attention for some time. Peter had realized Neal was in trouble, of course. He usually did.

Peter was saying his name. Repeating it like a goddamned mantra. It gave Neal something to focus on and he did, grateful for something to think about beside pain and breathing and the vertiginous certainty that he was going to end up in pieces on the floor any minute.

"Hey, Neal. You okay? Answer me. Come on, Neal." Peter's voice intruded on his thoughts, bringing him back, just like Peter always did.

_He had such a knack for that._

"Y-yeah," Neal said finally.

"Good, Neal. Stay with me, now." Peter said, then added, "Are you still seeing triple?"

Neal didn't answer at first. Finally he said, eyes still squeezed shut, "I'll have you know . . . it's down to . . . double."

"That makes me feel much better," Peter said, just a hint of pretend sarcasm in his voice.

"Me, too," Neal agreed. God, but it was getting hard to find enough air to talk and breathe at the same time. "Three o' you is a little . . . intimidating. Even for me. One . . . Peter Burke . . . is enough."

"Have to keep that in mind," Peter said, and the faux-sarcasm was gone, replaced by something gentler. "Neal. Are you feeling dizzy?"

"Oh, y'know," Neal said, trying to sound casual, "maybe a little."

_Peter knew. How did he always know?_

"Yeah, I figured," Peter said. "Look, Neal, you're doing great. You can do this. I know you can. I know it's hard, but you're almost there."

Peter was echoing his thoughts. It was pretty cool how often they were on the same wavelength, him and Peter, without even trying . . . .

And Peter sounded . . . different. Different, but really the same. All the worry, all the anxiety that was so _not _Peter, was gone. Peter sounded calm and reassuring, like he always did, and Neal hadn't realized how much he'd needed to hear that note in Peter's voice until suddenly, there it _was_, and Neal felt the old, familiar confidence flooding through him.

_Peter believes you can do this, and if Peter believes it, then it must be true. You can do this. You will do this._

Neal dared to open his eyes. He had to; the clock was ticking, and he'd wasted too much time already. He risked a quick glance at Peter, below him—it was dangerous to look down, he knew, when you were as dizzy as he was—but it was worth it. When they locked eyes, Peter's anxious expression transformed instantly to a smile. Neal found it absurdly heartening.

"Hey." Peter's relief was audible.

"Hey," Neal echoed, voice a mere croak. Miraculously, the world's spinning seemed to have, if not stopped, at least slowed enough that he didn't feel he was going to be sick. Or fall off into oblivion.

" . . . doing great," Peter was saying. "Just take a few breaths, just relax. Whatever you need to do."

Pragmatically, Neal knew it was impossible for Peter to have made the dizziness go away, but it felt almost as if he had. And, really, Neal wouldn't have put it past him to figure out some way to do it. Peter had that ability to lull you into believing you knew what he was and the limits of what he could—or would—do.

Then he'd shock the hell out of you by catching you—when no one had ever caught you before. Or by agreeing to your crazy work-release scheme so you could get out of prison. Or stealing a security tape to keep you from going _back_ to prison. Or letting you hide in his house, even though you were a fugitive. Or demonstrating an alarming aptitude for picking pockets. Or performing a frighteningly detailed breakdown of the Le Bernardin menu . . . .

No, if there was anyone who could manage to use sheer force of will to stop the world from spinning too fast, it would be Peter Burke. Neal had no doubt about that.

Neal's fingers clenched around the key. _Time to finish this. _

Slowly, he moved his arm out and around, reaching down toward Peter's cuffed wrists, stifling a groan as he did so.

Neal cleared his throat. "You - your wrists 're bleeding," he said, feeling stupid for not having noticed it before.

"Pulled a little too hard on the cuffs," Peter admitted, sounding sheepish.

"Off soon," Neal said, referring to the cuffs but finding that extraneous words were using up energy he didn't have. Peter would know what he meant; he always did. Neal contacted with something warm that he realized was Peter's hand. He let out a huge sigh of relief, and that hurt like hell, too, but it didn't matter, because he was _nearly_ _there_.

His fingers were damp with sweat and blood, and the key was slipping out of his grasp; he had to squeeze his fingers together to hold onto it.

_For God's sake, don't drop it._

"Take your time," Peter continued, in his most encouraging Peter-voice. "Just take it easy. Because if you pass out again, Neal, we're—"

"I believe we're right back where we started," a familiar, British-accented voice rang out, shattering the silence.

_TBC….._

* * *

_A/N – Good grief. To think I actually said at one point that I was trying to keep each part manageable - and now look at this insanely long chapter! Everyone who finished this really should get some kind of prize, but all I have to offer, once again, are my deepest thanks for all the reviews/follows/etc. I can't tell you how exciting it is to know that so many of you are enjoying the story. Even those who said they are finding the story boring—I appreciate your honesty and your keeping me humble._

_I hope everyone has a safe and very happy New Year!_

_. . . and that you won't hate me **too** much for this horrible, terrible, no good, very bad cliffhanger.  
_


	12. An Uncertain Future

Critical Hour

**Chapter 12 – An Uncertain Future**

"_**Heralds don't sing about men who lived in orthodoxy or played it safe; they sing about men who lived an uncertain future and took enough risks to make your head spin."  
**_― Evan Meekins

* * *

Peter froze, the words he'd been about to say dying on his lips. He saw Neal close his eyes.

He'd been so intent on Neal, on tracking every step of the agonizingly slow climb, worrying that he wouldn't make it, rousing him when Neal was on the verge of passing out, that he'd momentarily forgotten to keep an eye on Regal. He'd been completely oblivious to the fact that their bad guy was waking up. Quietly.

_Shit._

Peter's throat went dry. _They'd been so close. So close to freedom._

Now—Regal was right. They were right back where they'd started, with Regal holding all the cards, and he and Neal in the worst kind of trouble.

_So goddamned fucking stupid. You should have made Neal leave. All that crap about loyalty—what's that going to do for him, now? He's in danger and you let him stay, and now Regal's going to take him—and that will be your fault. _

Peter's eyes flew over to Regal. He was still on the floor, sitting up now, groaning and reaching into his pocket for something. An instant later he pulled out a small gun—_pansy ass pistol_, Peter couldn't help thinking, but of course it would put a hole in you plenty well enough, especially from this range. It looked like a Beretta—a Tomcat or a Bobcat, probably. Compact and very concealable: the perfect second weapon.

Slowly, painfully, Regal dragged himself to his feet, weapon pointed at them. Regal's battered, bleeding face was dark with anger, and he looked a bit dazed at first, but his eyes glinted with amused triumph as he watched Peter catch sight of the gun. "Unlike you, Agent Burke, I had a backup handy."

Of course he did.

_Considering recent events, I may need to reconsider carrying a backup, _Peter thought.

_Considering likely future events, it may not matter, _the practical part of his mind automatically retorted.

Neal made a small movement with his hand before pulling back. He had opened his eyes again, and he gave a quick, deliberate look down at Peter's still-cuffed wrists. He hadn't had time to unlock them, unfortunately.

Regal took out a silk handkerchief and grunted in pain as he blotted blood from what looked like a pretty obviously broken nose. His overly nasal voice confirmed it, and his formerly elegant face was a mess.

_I hope it fucking hurts, _Peter thought venomously.

"I would advise you not to move, Neal," Regal said, "because if you do, the consequences will be truly unpleasant. Possibly even . . . irrevocable."

Peter caught his consultant's eye, just for a moment. Neal, damn him, looked almost _excited._ While Peter was relieved not to see fear there, he had a queasy sense of anxiety about what Neal was going to do.

Peter knew all too well how impulsive Neal could be. And, right now, he looked entirely too . . . eager for Peter's liking.

So Peter tried to put all the warning he could into the silent look he shot at Neal. Confidence was all well and good—but recklessness could get them both killed.

With his right eye, Neal gave Peter a quick wink that Regal couldn't see and said, "Regal. Nice to see you awake."

"I wish I could say the same," Regal answered in a voice so sharp it could have cut glass. "Get down here. Slowly."

Neal complied. His descent was slow, all right—even more so than his climb had been. Peter hoped it was Neal being cautious, not wanting to spook Regal, maybe exaggerating his injuries to lull the man into a false sense of security.

What Peter feared, though, was that it was Neal reaching the end of his endurance.

Peter glanced over at Regal, once. His gun—_definitely a Beretta_, Peter decided—was trained on Neal now. There was something undefinable and frightening about the look on his face as he watched Neal's every move. Peter felt his pulse start to race. _Jesus._

_Don't do anything stupid. Neal._

As Neal prepared to step down to the last shelf before reaching the floor, his left ankle buckled—or maybe his foot just slipped—and he fell awkwardly, face-first, right into Peter. Neal groaned and Peter felt him grabbing on to his suit coat in a desperate attempt to keep from crashing to the floor; Neal only just managed it. Peter gritted his teeth and winced as Neal's full weight fell on him for a few long seconds before Neal was able to right himself.

"Sorry," Neal muttered, breathing hard. He turned around carefully to face Regal, putting himself between him and Peter.

"Let me see your hands. And step away from him, Neal. Again, no sudden movements," Regal ordered, jerking his head to indicate that Neal should move off to the right. Neal stumbled away, clumsily favoring his left leg, until Regal said curtly, "Stop."

Neal looked like the shelves were the only thing holding him up.

Keeping the gun pointed at Neal's chest, Regal took a few quick steps over to Peter and yanked viciously on both of his wrists, testing to make sure the cuffs were still locked. Peter gasped involuntarily at the sudden bolt of pain.

"Just making sure," Regal said blandly. "How were you going to free Agent Burke, Neal?"

Neal lifted his hand, palm facing out in a pacifying gesture, and then indicated his pocket. "May I?"

"Slowly."

Neal reached deliberately into his pocket and drew out the lock-pick set he and Peter had been arguing about moments before. His smile was brilliant and utterly unrepentant—the one he'd appeared incapable of conjuring earlier. "Tools of the trade," Neal said cheerfully.

Regal was unamused. "Toss it over here."

Neal threw it and Regal caught the small leather case easily with his left hand, the gun never wavering.

Regal examined it—he was careful, Peter noted, to make sure the kit was still intact and that Neal hadn't left him any pick or tool to unlock the cuffs with. While Regal was occupied, Peter took advantage of the momentary distraction to stretch his nerveless fingers around on the shelf. It took a few seconds—longer than it should have, given his lack of sensation—to locate the tiny metal key that had been left there for him.

_Thank you, Neal._

Now all Peter had to do was figure out how to pick up the key and angle it into the lock, despite the fact that he couldn't really feel his hands. And do it without attracting the attention of the dangerous criminal who had Neal at gunpoint. _And_ then unlock the cuffs _and_ disarm Regal before he shoots you, or shoots Neal . . . .

_All right, one thing at a time . . . . _

Regal's voice brought him back. "I would think you would simply have used the key, Neal."

At that comment, Neal's face fell into a familiar expression—pitying and almost, but not quite, edging into scorn; Peter always thought of it as the _do you really have to ask me that _look

"_You _might think so," Neal observed lightly. "But, honestly, where's the fun in that?"

Regal didn't answer. Blinking in pain, he tucked the picks away and gingerly wiped more blood from his nose.

"Oh, yeah," Neal said, sounding genuinely apologetic. He waved a hand in the general direction of Regal's battered face. "Sorry about that."

"I doubt that," Regal replied. The look on his face said, _But you will be._ Everything in his tone and posture spoke of danger.

Neal watched Regal calmly, his body language relaxed. The overt menace in Regal's voice had chilled Peter to the bone, but Neal appeared completely unruffled, almost as if he hadn't heard it. _Surely he had, though_, Peter thought. Neal was hyper attentive to tone, to body language, under normal circumstances.

Except these weren't normal circumstances.

Peter said, "Regal—"

"Shut up, Agent Burke." All of Regal's attention was focused on Neal.

Peter flexed his fingers, as unobtrusively as he could. He knew it was imperative that he start doing something, anything, to try to get the feeling back.

"Turnabout's fair play, I always say," Neal put in, adroitly picking up the conversational thread. His voice turned cold, but he remained perfectly composed. "You clubbed me over the head—multiple times, if I recall correctly, in addition to some other . . . unpleasantries—and tied me up. Meanwhile, I'm told you want to hire me."

Regal eyed him with an appraising look. "So Agent Burke _did_ tell you. Are you interested?"

Neal didn't answer right away. He glanced at Peter, just a quick sideways glance out of the corner of his eye, before looking at Regal attentively. "I'm . . . open to exploring my options," Neal said, punctuating the words with a delicate half-shrug. He sounded thoughtful—the perfect mix of noncommittal, yet intrigued.

"Neal, you don't—" Peter put in.

Regal turned the gun to point at Peter's chest. "You are trying my patience, Agent Burke."

Peter kept silent, but all he could think was, _that's good, Neal. Keep him talking, don't antagonize him._

For maybe the hundredth time, Peter was impressed, in spite of himself, at just how smooth a liar Neal could be. Often this proficiency made Peter nervous, because of course if Neal could use it to convince their quarry during an op, that meant he could also do it to the good guys if he wanted to.

At the moment, though, Peter could only be profoundly grateful that Neal was the best damned liar he had ever seen.

"I didn't think your Agent Burke would be amenable to any new . . . employment opportunities for you," Regal explained. "Since we're tossing around apologies, I can assure you that he's to blame him for the rough treatment I was forced to mete out to you earlier." He spoke ruefully, like a man who was helpless in the face of circumstances beyond his control. "It's lamentable, but I didn't think I had a choice at the time."

Neal's irritation was undisguised. "Well, the next time you want to send a message to Agent Burke, maybe you could use another method besides bashing _me _in the head with a gun."

"With pleasure; I'm sure I can devise something much more fitting," Regal answered, shooting a quick, malicious smile in Peter's direction that did not augur well for the agent's well-being. "Frankly, he seems like the type to require rather _a lot_ of message-sending. Especially where you're concerned."

Neal nodded curtly. "He does keep me on a short leash."

"That must get tiresome for a man such as yourself."

"Oh, you have no idea," Neal shot back, and Peter started at the bitterness in his voice. _That_ had had the ring of real truth to it. He looked at Neal, sharply, but Neal wasn't looking at him. He was watching Regal, intense and calculating, and Regal was staring back with an odd look on his face that was half pleased, half speculative.

It should have made him feel relieved. Regal was engaged with Neal, which meant he wasn't hurting him—or pulling the trigger on Peter.

And yet, Peter found he didn't like it one bit.

"How did you free yourself?" Regal inquired.

Neal gave him a condescending look. "If you want to hire me, you must know I'm resourceful. Found a pair of pliers in one of the storerooms over there." He angled his head back toward the exit.

"And you called the police." It wasn't a question.

"Well, I might have," Neal said, with a little chuckle. "Except there's no phone."

Regal looked satisfied. "No, there isn't. So you returned to help Agent Burke. And where is the gun I had earlier?"

Neal gazed back at him serenely. "I got rid of it, of course."

"And why would you do that?"

"Gee, I don't know," Neal said, all exaggerated innocence. "I guess I was worried about your waking up and putting a bullet in my head."

Regal laughed. "I wasn't going to put a bullet in _your_ head, Neal." He threw a pointed look at Peter, his meaning unmistakable, before returning his focus to Neal once more.

Neal nodded wryly, raising his eyebrows. "Good to know." Now he sounded almost bored.

"You'll understand if I don't take your word for it," Regal said. "Put your arms out and turn around."

Neal moved so he was facing the shelves. He couldn't raise his right arm very far; Peter could see his mouth tighten at the movement. He turned his head so he could still see Regal and Peter out of the corner of his eye.

"Now, Neal, I must verify that you're not lying to me," Regal said. "I'm going to check you for weapons. But I've got mine pointed at Agent Burke. If you move, he bleeds. And if I discover that you've lied to me, then you'll do the same."

"Frisk away," Neal said airily. _ And damn him, if he didn't roll his eyes at the melodrama._

"I'll need you to face front, Neal," Regal said. Not waiting for Neal to comply, he placed his left hand on the back of Neal's head and forced it around so he was looking at the shelves.

Even though Peter had a few inches on Neal, somehow he never thought of him as short. But Regal was taller, even, than Peter, and he absolutely towered over Neal. Something about the contrast in their heights as Regal hovered close, so close behind him, only served to emphasize Neal's vulnerability as he slumped forward, quiet now. Neal stayed still, except that he closed his eyes and bowed his head, resting his forehead on the boxes stacked in front of him. Either he was gathering himself, Peter thought, or he was fighting to stay conscious.

Having positioned Neal where he wanted him, Regal subjected him to a thorough search. Thorough enough that Peter, watching with helpless apprehension, found his stomach churning unpleasantly.

It wasn't that anything the man did was blatantly inappropriate. Certainly there was nothing like the abuse Regal had inflicted on Neal earlier, when he'd been unconscious. And yet Regal was so meticulous about inspecting seemingly every inch of Neal's body, about not just patting him down, but scrupulously running his hand up and down Neal's arms, his legs, pressing not roughly, but almost . . . tenderly—at least, to Peter's eye, and allowing his touch to linger just a bit too long.

If Neal noticed anything untoward about what Regal was doing, he didn't show it. But after what Peter had witnessed earlier, it was all deeply unsettling.

And Peter's disquiet ratcheted up into horror a moment later. Regal looked over at him, and when he saw that Peter was watching, a sly, malevolent smile broke over Regal's face. He raised his eyebrows at Peter—and winked. Then he returned his attentions to Neal.

Peter tried to keep his face impassive, tried not to let his fear show.

"Where did you say the gun was, Neal?" Regal asked, an edge to his voice. He had completed his search of Neal and come up empty. Peter, his anxiety rising, saw that Regal left his hand on the back of Neal's neck for an extra moment; Neal stiffened in response to the pressure and his eyes shot open. Peter watched worriedly, afraid of Regal would do next, but the man dropped his hand away and stepped back.

"You may turn around." Once more, Regal pointed the weapon at Neal.

"Well," Neal said, turning back toward him very slowly, "if you know anything about me, you know I'm not a gun guy. I threw it away; it's around here somewhere," he added, waving a hand in the air. "Figured it was safer that way . . . ."

Regal looked like he thought that was a load of crap, but he apparently wasn't going to worry about it, since wherever the gun was, he was satisfied that Neal didn't have it. Nonetheless, he took three quick steps over to Peter and frisked him as well.

_Thorough, _Peter thought grimly.

"I don't suppose you have an extra set of handcuffs that I could use, Agent Burke," Regal said, glancing at Neal.

"Sorry, no backup," Peter said, pasting on a grin of fake regret.

Regal shook his head sadly. "You really _are _useless, aren't you?"

Neal rolled his eyes again, annoyed now. "What the hell, Regal? You trying to hire me or lock me up?"

"Does it have to be one or the other?" Regal asked, a little smile playing around his lips.

Neal's eyes narrowed; Peter tensed involuntarily at the words—and the way Regal said them.

"One captor to another, is that it?" Neal asked. He didn't sound scared or angry, just weary—almost resigned.

Peter wondered if, underneath it all, that was how Neal really thought of _him_.

"No, Neal, of course not," Regal said, apologetic now, as if realizing that he'd overplayed his hand. "Forgive me; I was only joking. It's just that I rarely have the chance to add an operative of your caliber to my team. And Agent Burke was quite emphatic in saying that you wouldn't be interested. At all. He believes you're firmly on the side of _justice._" He said the last word like it was an epithet.

That got Neal's attention. He glanced over at Regal, sharply, and stared at him for several long seconds, a shrewd, assessing look on his face.

Then Neal laughed, a jarring, ugly little laugh that Peter had never heard from him before. "Of course he does."

Regal gave him a curious look. "What do you mean?"

Neal's lips curled into a smile that Peter didn't recognize; when his gaze flicked to Peter before returning to Regal, it was full of contempt. "He believes that for a very simple reason: because I want him to."

Regal studied Neal, pinning him with an unblinking stare and looking intrigued in spite of himself. "He thinks you've changed."

"I would hope so," Neal replied. "Given the amount of time and effort I've invested to that end."

"Is that so?"

"I'm very good at what I do," Neal remarked, sounding not arrogant but matter-of-fact, in that way he had.

"You've been deceiving him." Regal's intonation made it into a statement, rather than a question.

"I would say," Neal said, pausing and looking contemplative, "that I've been using him. I act in my own best interest. When it serves me to cooperate with the FBI, I do. When a better opportunity presents itself, however . . . " he trailed off, glancing at Regal and raising an eyebrow delicately.

"I'm fascinated, Neal, truly, but this is all a bit . . . convenient," Regal said, his tone dismissive. His skepticism was plain.

Neal gazed at him steadily. "You checked Agent Burke for weapons, so I assume you noticed that he didn't have one. And that I didn't shoot you while you were unconscious. I could have, you know. That should count for something."

"Fair enough," Regal conceded.

"I won't deny that I'm a bit . . . mercurial," Neal said, smiling again. "Ask anyone who knows me. My loyalties can be malleable. But clearly Agent Burke isn't in control of this situation any more—you are. That changes things considerably. From my perspective, it creates certain . . . unique opportunities. And I'm nothing if not opportunistic."

Regal didn't answer, just continued to scrutinize Neal.

"Will we work together forever?" Neal mused. "I imagine not. But isn't everything temporary in the end?"

"Like your partnership with Agent Burke?" Regal suggested.

Neal's eyes gleamed appreciatively. "_Exactly_ like that."

"You know, I think you'd find working with me much more rewarding," Regal suggested. "You wouldn't be reduced to what you are now."

"And what is that?"

"A sidekick. A lackey," Regal said, voice thick with disdain. "An underling, at the beck and call of a man and an organization that will use you up at their own convenience, without any consideration of your needs, your desires. They use your mind and risk your life and reap the benefits. And what do you get?

Neal stared at him, silent. Peter watched his blank face, watched his eyes darken with an emotion Peter couldn't decipher. He wondered what Neal was thinking.

"It's pathetic, really," Regal continued. "That a man of your talents—the man who masterminded the Richardson heist—should be trapped that way, force to work for dull, small-minded people with no ability to see what you could do, given the chance."

_The Richardson heist._ The man really _had_ done his homework, Peter thought uneasily. It was one of many crimes he'd tried to pin on Neal over the years (and failed).

" . . . like telling a Ph.D. he has to sit in class with a group of second graders." Regal was saying.

"Well, now that you've thoroughly insulted me . . ." Neal said, looking disconcerted.

"Not _you_, Neal. The bureaucracy that's been exploiting you. The people who thought they could keep you." Regal threw another scathing glance at Peter. "I know you haven't had a choice. But now you do."

"In theory. Of course," Neal remarked, "it has to be worth my while. There would be some . . . issues to resolve."

Regal's smile was knowing as he parroted Neal's words. "Of course. Perhaps I can convince you of the benefits that would accrue to you."

"Perhaps." Neal smiled back. "And even if we come to an amicable arrangement, there are other obstacles to a partnership between us."

"Oh?" Regal inquired politely. "What might those be?"

"Agent Burke doesn't rely on a winning personality to keep me in check," Neal said, distaste showing on his face.

"No?"

"No." Neal lifted his left foot and pulled up the fabric of his pant leg to expose the anklet.

Regal glanced at the anklet and then not at Neal—but at Peter, as if to observe his reaction to this revelation. Peter, who'd been furtively trying to get his hands to work, stopped moving abruptly.

"My goodness," Regal said, looking and sounding surprised. "Is that . . . an electronic tracker?"

Regal, of course, wasn't surprised, Peter knew—it was purely an act. Because he'd already made it abundantly clear to Peter that he knew all about the tracker. He'd demanded the key to the thing, for God's sake.

_Except Neal had been unconscious for all of that. He had no idea that Regal knew. And Peter hadn't mentioned it._

Peter felt a niggling sense of unease at the realization. _Regal is testing him. And Neal is . . . _Peter wasn't sure what Neal was doing.

_He's playing along. Except—_

"- outfitted with the latest government technology," Neal was saying. "So they always know where I am."

Regal studied him sadly. "Now that you mention it, Agent Burke did say earlier that they don't trust you."

Peter couldn't help thinking, _Can you blame us? _

Neal's gaze sharpened; the look he gave Peter was ominous. "He said that, eh? One bit of honesty." He turned his attention back to Regal. "No, trust is not a high priority for them. I have a two-mile radius."

"Ah. So you're no longer in super max, but you're still a prisoner," Regal remarked. "You have a larger cell, that's all."

Neal nodded.

Regal gave him a thoughtful look. "Well, it is, as you said, an obstacle. We can't have law enforcement knowing your every move, now can we? I assume if it's removed, alarm bells will ring?"

"You assume correctly."

Peter said, "Neal, you can't—"

Regal took two strides to where Peter stood and slammed the butt of the gun into Peter's midsection. Peter clenched his teeth and fought back a cry of pain.

"We're not speaking to you, Agent Burke," Regal said pleasantly. "Neal and I are working on a problem, and I'm not going to warn you again about interrupting."

Neal didn't react; he didn't appear to have even noticed. His glance, cold and impersonal, switched from Peter back to Regal. He waited for a long moment, watching Regal with an unreadable expression on his face. When he finally spoke, his tone had the firmness of someone who'd just made a decision.

"Actually, now that you mention it, Agent Burke is part of the solution to our little . . . problem," Neal said.

A little knot of worry formed in Peter's chest, totally separate from the pain blossoming in his ribs.

Regal stopped, turned to Neal. "How so?"

"My accessory can be unlocked and removed without setting off any alarms. If you have the key."

The knot in Peter's chest tightened.

"The key." Regal looked inquiringly at Neal.

Neal didn't say anything. He just smiled and raised an eyebrow at Regal. Peter froze as cold fear flooded his veins.

_Neal, what the hell are you doing?_

Regal held Neal's gaze for a long moment, as if searching for something. Seeming to find it, he smiled back.

Peter didn't even look at him. He was staring at Neal's smooth, bland face that betrayed nothing.

What game was Neal playing? Peter **knew **that Neal had been unconscious when Regal had asked about the key. Neal didn't know Regal was even aware of his tracking anklet, so why was he doing this_? _ Why risk himself that way, especially when he knew that Regal wanted to take him? Unless—

_No._

Neal looked at Peter, then, really _looked_ at him, and Peter felt a chill at the emptiness in Neal's eyes. Neal smiled, cruel and arrogant; there was nothing reassuring in it.

The first thing Peter thought, reflexively, was, _He's enjoying this_. _He got to me, he knows it, and he's enjoying it._

The second thing Peter thought of was how hard he'd fought to keep Regal from getting that key. How he'd _agonized _over whether he could fool Regal into believing he didn't have it. How terrified he'd been that Regal would see through him and hurt Neal as a result.

And now, unless Peter had badly misjudged things, Neal was about to give up the key to Regal without a second thought, nonchalantly revealing the one thing Peter had so desperately tried to hide.

"I think now might be an appropriate time for me to make a show of good faith," Neal said to Regal.

Regal tilted his head and surveyed him. "Certainly. What do you have to offer?"

"You frisked Agent Burke for _weapons_," Neal remarked, emphasizing the last word. "But you might want to check him again."

"Should I?" Regal asked ominously. The knot in Peter's chest was getting bigger, crowding the air out of his lungs. "Do I need to frisk Agent Burke?"

"I think we'll both find it quite . . . rewarding," Neal said, a surreptitious little smile on his face.

"Neal, this is—this is crazy," Peter said, nervousness bleeding through into his voice. But neither of them was paying him any attention. Mesmerized by the conversation, Peter had to remind himself that now would be a good time to try limbering up his fingers again.

A gleeful expression lit up Regal's face. "I appreciate your decision to share this with me, Neal."

Neal waved a hand languidly. "Check his left pants pocket."

Again, Peter stopped moving his hands, not wanting the man to notice what he was trying to do. Regal shoved Peter to the side roughly so he could reach the pocket. Peter bit his lip as the movement caused pain to spike in his wrists, his shoulders.

It took Regal only a few seconds to locate the key to the anklet, right where Neal had said it would be. He pulled it out, casting a triumphant look at the agent before turning to Neal.

Neal inhaled sharply, all attention focused on the device in Regal's outstretched palm. There was an unfamiliar, almost hungry look in his eyes. Peter had seen it a few times, when they'd come across a particularly expert forgery, once when Neal had talked about that Matisse at the Met that he loved—_it's on the second floor, right near the fire escape . . . . _

Most recently, he'd seen it when Neal had been examining the printing plate for the hundred dollar bill, those three antsy Treasury agents hovering at his back. At the time, Peter had been glad they'd been behind Neal; that way, they couldn't see the expression on his face.

It was a look of sheer covetousness, a look that said, _God, what I wouldn't do to have that . . . ._

"Do you know," Regal said conversationally, "I asked your keeper about this earlier and he quite ardently denied having it."

"I see. So you already knew about it," Neal mused, eying Regal and looking impressed, almost in spite of himself.

"You must know: I researched your . . . difficult situation quite thoroughly," Regal said, all solicitousness. "Your keeper—or should I say, _former_ keeper—refused to hand it over, despite the threat of . . . duress."

Neal let out a little laugh; it sounded unnervingly treacherous to Peter's ears.

"Take it." Regal extended his arm to where Neal stood, the key in his outstretched hand. "Consider it a sign of good faith. A sign of the freedom at your fingertips—if you're interested."

Neal took the key proffered by Regal, examining it thoughtfully.

"You've been a prisoner, Neal." Regal said, in a voice filled with quiet confidence. "But now, you can see it doesn't have to be that way."

He turned back to Peter. "As for you, Agent Burke, I warned you multiple times about the necessity for complete honesty, and yet now you've been caught in a lie. We discussed . . . consequences."

"Yeah, you said you would hurt _Neal_," Peter retorted, filled with a sense of foreboding. He looked over at Neal, who was still studying the key and looking contemplative. Grimly, Peter braced himself.

Regal scoffed. "As if I would harm one of my colleagues. I believe Neal said it earlier. Time for a little _message-sending._"

Being pistol-whipped hurt every bit as much as Peter had always assumed it would. Maybe more. Certainly it was a hell of alot worse than than being punched, which was something Peter _had _experienced.

With a vicious blow, Regal smashed the gun into Peter's cheekbone, his temple. Peter saw stars as the world darkened and he staggered helplessly from the force of the impact. When Regal struck him again, he heard himself cry out in pain, in a voice that didn't sound like his own. Dizziness overcame him and for a moment, he thought he might pass out. As his eyes closed and he started to fall, legs going weak, it was the screaming pain in his wrists, as they started to bear his weight, that kept him conscious, that forced him to stand upright once again. His arms, his shoulders, now his head—it was pure, unfiltered agony, and he wasn't sure how much more of it he could take.

_You're okay. Get ahold of yourself._

Peter gasped, his harsh breathing loud in the quiet. Eyes still closed, he leaned his head against his right arm, using his suit jacket to wipe away the blood that was now dripping, warm and wet, from a cut under his right eye.

_Just breathe. Push the pain away. Separate it._

Regal leaned in close. "Did you get the message, Agent Burke?" With his left hand, he jerked Peter's head back savagely, while, with his right, he pressed the gun against the cut on Peter's face.

Peter groaned—he couldn't stop himself—and winced in pain.

"What did I say earlier about answering my questions?" Regal asked, bending Peter's head back further.

"Not . . . optional," Peter ground out, feeling as if his neck was about to snap from the pressure Regal was applying. _I am going to kill you, you son of a bitch._

"You remembered." Regal sounded appreciative. "So, please tell me: did you get the message?"

Hatred—and pain—were making it hard for Peter to actually form words. He wanted, so desperately, to spit in the man's face instead. But it would only give Regal an excuse to hurt him again. Not that the bastard really needed one. "Yes."

Peter had to squeeze his eyes shut against the throbbing in his head. His greatest fear now was that Neal, seeing Peter attacked this way, would be spurred to act. That he might lose his composure and try to rush Regal from behind so he could grab the gun. The thought scared the hell out of Peter; Neal would be taking a terrible risk trying to protect him that way.

But when Regal released him and Peter finally opened his eyes, all he saw was that Regal had stepped away, observing Neal keenly.

And Neal, far from trying to help Peter, instead was just standing there, casually taking in this scene with an expression that could only be described as _disinterested_. Like he was watching something on television, something tiresome and uneventful. Like he hadn't just seen Peter being pistol-whipped.

Peter had seen that look on Neal's face before, when confronted with a particularly tedious mortgage fraud case. Or when Peter tuned the radio to a basketball game when they were on a stakeout. It was a look of pure apathy.

As Regal watched Neal, reading his utter lack of emotion, Peter could see the man's expression change to a slow, satisfied smile. A moment later, Neal looked over at him and matched it.

Peter blanched.

"Very good!" Regal said. "Now—"

"Now, Regal, we need to talk," Neal cut in. His voice sounded detached. Distant.

Peter, playing the role of uneasy bystander, decided it was time to reinsert himself in the conversation.

"Look, you're hurt, you're not thinking right, Neal," Peter put in. "Going with this guy is not smart. You didn't see, when you were unconscious, what he did to—"

He never got the chance to finish the sentence. He hadn't expected Neal to come up close and then smash his left elbow into Peter's ribs.

"I won't have you talking that way about my new employer," Neal said coolly. Then, to Regal, with a little chuckle of delight, "That felt surprisingly good."

Peter couldn't respond—even if he'd known what to say, the pain had flooded his abdomen and all the air had left his lungs. Talking was impossible when all effort had to be focused on trying to breathe. He wanted to bend over, to curl into the pain, but of course he was immobilized. It was all he could do to keep from crying out and giving that bastard the satisfaction. He drew in air through clenched teeth.

"Disappointed?" Neal asked, a taunting note in his voice.

"Disappointed, but not surprised," Peter shot back. There was a flicker of something in Neal's eyes that quickly died away, too fast for Peter to decide what it had been.

"That's because you take everything too personally," Neal remarked, equanimity restored after an abnormally long pause. "In my case, you mistook expedience for emotion."

"I fell for your con," Peter said, and he could hear the bitterness underlying the words.

Neal shrugged. "Don't be too hard on yourself. It's what I do."

Peter didn't answer. The symbolism of Neal, who'd moved away to stand at Regal's side, was hard to miss.

As was the smug smile on Regal's face.

He turned to Neal. "Now that your partnership with Agent Burke is officially at an end, perhaps we can sever it for good."

"Sever it how?"

"By taking care of Agent Burke permanently," Regal said. "Suppose, as additional proof of your loyalty, I asked you to do it. What would you say then?"

"Oh, I'd have plenty to say," Neal replied, unperturbed. "But I'd prefer to have that conversation elsewhere."

"There's really no need," Regal said, punctuating his words with a slight wave of the gun. "I can guarantee that Agent Burke won't be able to repeat anything he hears."

"Yeah," Neal drawled. "About that. You're smart enough to know the kind of attention that killing a fed will bring."

"I do. But the alternative is also problematic."

Neal looked a question at Regal.

"I think you may be underestimating Agent Burke's . . . attachment to you," Regal explained, with a delicate sidelong glance at the agent.

Neal followed his eyes and Peter caught his gaze. At first he thought it was a trick of the light, but no—Neal's eyes were cold and flat, an icy, searing blue. He was giving Peter the kind of look you could imagine burning a hole in you if it lasted too long.

"Underestimating it? Not at all," Neal said. "Remember—I created it." His smile was full of menace.

Regal smiled back. "So you say."

"I'm not underestimating his attachment to me," Neal said, looking over at Regal. "He's _over_estimating _my_ attachment to _him_."

His voice had dropped to that almost-whisper that Elizabeth had described—the one that Peter knew so well, that meant Neal was deadly serious. Hearing it sent a shiver down Peter's spine.

"But he knows better now," Neal added mockingly. "Don't you?" Once again that malevolent, piercing gaze—the gaze of a stranger—was fixed on Peter's face.

Peter swallowed hard, momentarily at a loss for words. This scene was disturbing on many levels. But his was the easier role to play.

_Imagine it's real. Imagine that Neal is betraying you._

Peter let shock show on his face. "Neal, you have to listen to me. You're not thinking clearly. You can't even be thinking about—"

"I've already thought about it," Neal said, cutting Peter off before he could finish. "And you don't get to tell me what to think any more. Or what to do. That's all over now."

"I beg to differ, Neal. It won't be over," Regal put in. "Not until he's dead."

Neal gave him a cool glance. "You've got quite the one-track mind."

"And you've got quite the sentimental streak," Regal said, an edge to his voice.

"Oh, a man in my position can't afford to be sentimental," Neal said.

"Exactly. That's why Burke has to be dispatched."

Neal sighed impatiently. "I'm not opposed to killing him on principle, but on practicality. Do you really want us sharing a top spot on the most wanted list? Because that's what'll happen if you shoot him."

He turned to Regal. "There are other solutions to this problem. And some details about our . . . arrangement that need to be discussed. In private. Now."

Neal didn't wait for the other man to answer. Without looking at Peter, he turned and limped away.

Regal stayed, unable to resist gloating. "You said he'd never work for me, Agent Burke." His eyes quickly flicked to a retreating Neal, and then back to Peter. "Or maybe he isn't. He does talk a magnificent game, doesn't he? Maybe he thinks he can con me, as well. Of course, I'm prepared for that possibility."

When Peter didn't acknowledge him, Regal grabbed Peter's chin and forced his head to the right so his eyes met Regal's.

Regal laughed at the fury he saw blazing in Peter's eyes. "Is that anger at me or Neal? Or maybe at yourself?"

Peter didn't speak; he just stared at Regal while he thought of additional, creative ways he could kill the man if he were free.

Regal released him, chuckling again. "It must be difficult to accept the possibility that you could have been so wrong, that you could have been duped so completely."

He surveyed Peter once more, head to toe, and raised the gun to point it at Peter's head, right at eye level, so that it filled Peter's vision. He pressed the barrel against his forehead as Peter fought the urge to recoil from the pressure. "I'll make you a promise, though. You won't have to live with your humiliation. Before it's over, I'll come back to put you out of your misery."

"Regal," Neal called, his voice peremptory. They both looked back to see him standing at the end of the aisle, watching them expressionlessly. "You coming?"

"Soon, Agent Burke," Regal said, tapping the pistol sharply against Peter's temple. "You won't have to wait much longer." Amusement twinkled in his eyes.

Peter met his gaze with a calm and unblinking stare of his own.

"You won't get far, you know," he said, proud of how collected, even authoritative his voice was. Every second he engaged with Regal gave the backup teams another second to arrive.

Regal shrugged. "I won't get far, you say? I guess we'll see. Or, to be more precise, _I'll _see," he said, glancing at the gun and then back at Peter. "I must say, our interaction here today has left me with grave doubts about the competence of the FBI. But perhaps your colleagues will present more of a challenge than you did."

With one last, contemptuous glance at the agent's cuffed wrists, Regal strolled away to where Neal waited, still watching silently.

* * *

Regal was the dramatic, exit-with-a-flourish type, so Peter didn't expect him to turn around. But, still, he watched the man walk away, mentally counting the steps he took. On the second step, Peter started to bend and flex his fingers again. Neal had been right—Peter couldn't really feel them, but he was just going to have to make the best of it. It wouldn't be graceful, but he wasn't being graded on style points today.

Regal reached the end of the aisle and then headed left, following Neal. For a few more seconds, Peter did what he could to get the blood flowing back into his fingers. They were starting to tingle slightly, which was good. It was a precursor, he knew, to pain, but he'd welcome that, too.

He felt the overwhelming need for haste, the fear that Regal would take Neal while Peter was still tethered. And yet—Regal had promised to kill Peter first, and there was no reason to disbelieve him. But that was a race against time, too. If Neal was unable to delay Regal long enough and their adversary returned before Peter freed himself, all of Neal's efforts would be for naught.

Just as it would be if Regal's criminal associates arrived. He'd take his chances against Regal—well, technically, it would really be two against one, except that he wasn't counting on much help from Neal in his present condition. But he didn't like his odds of success against multiple opponents who'd likely be armed. No, Peter knew he had to take action before that happened.

He didn't believe for a moment Neal's charade that he'd turned against Peter. Well, that wasn't quite true. He would admit, privately, to a moment of doubt when Neal had told Regal about the anklet key. _And then hit me for good measure . . . ._

But he was trusting that the gestures had been Neal's characteristic _coup de grace_—to seal the deal, as it were. Neal had judged that he'd need a final flourish in order to convince Regal, to gain that extra bit of confidence that would allay his suspicions about where Neal's loyalties lay. And since this was Neal's forte, Peter wasn't going to question it.

"_I think you may be underestimating Agent Burke's . . . attachment to you."_

_No, Neal had said. "__**He's**__ overestimating __**my**__ attachment to __**him**__."_

It brought to mind an exchange he'd had with El, just a few months after Neal's work-release had begun. He'd been expressing doubt about Neal, as he was wont to do, while Elizabeth had been defending Neal, as _she_ was wont to do.

_I wouldn't worry too much about him_, she'd said._ He respects you, you know._

_I think you're overselling our bond a little bit, _he'd answered.

And she'd said simply, _I don't._

As usual, his wife was damn smart—on the subject of Neal, smarter than Peter was, maybe, in some ways. After all, she was the one who'd convinced him to agree to Neal's release in the first place.

No, he hadn't overestimated Neal's attachment to him. Despite all of Neal's everyday little deceptions, despite his hidden agendas, there _was _a bond there. It was something that, at one time, he would have scoffed at heartily, but no longer. Not after what Neal had done recently to try to save Peter's life.

Not after that look he'd seen in Neal's eyes when Peter had tried to get him to leave.

And despite all that Neal had done to convince Regal and unnerve Peter—a crucial fact remained: he'd left Peter the means to escape.

All right. Regal was gone. And Peter's fingers were as limber as they were going to get under the circumstances. _Time to do this._

Reaching out carefully, Peter felt again for the handcuff key, exhaling in relief when he touched it.

_Take your time. You have to do this right._

He began trying to pick up the key.

_Trying and failing miserably._

His thick, lifeless fingers weren't cooperating. Peter swore under his breath at how clumsy he was. The key slid along the shelf a little, away from his fingers. _Shit. _If he pushed it too far, he wouldn't be able to reach it at all. He had to be careful. Anxiety crawled inside him, feeling as if it was pushing through his skin.

_It's not working._

Peter lost count (at five) of the tries it took him to pick up the key and angle it into the hole that would unlock the restraints. He stopped counting and kept trying.

_Failure is not an option._

He wanted to scream. He had no dexterity, no fluidity with which to maneuver the key where he needed it. It felt like back when he was a kid, trying to pick up a dime while wearing gloves.

_I can't—no. No. You will. You have to._

Finally, he had got the key caught clumsily between his first and second fingers. Then he brought his thumb over to get a firmer grasp and move it over toward the keyhole, wincing at the pain in his wrist at the twisting, awkward movement.

Because he was concentrating so fiercely on the feel of the metal, the precise location of the release point on the cuffs, on _not _dropping the key, because he was so resolutely ignoring the despair that was lurking in the dark corners of his psyche that _he would_ _never be able to do this_, he was almost surprised when he heard the click and felt the metal around his wrist loosen.

Peter exhaled, long and slow. _Yes._

He unlocked both wrists as quietly as he could, holding the cuffs to prevent the metal from clinking. Finally free, he brought both arms down and dropped cuffs and key into his pocket. Then he started to step away from the shelves.

And narrowly avoided a face plant. Only his right hand, wrapped around the shelf support at the last moment, was holding him up. Blood was rushing back into his arms, his hands, and the tingling had begun. As he'd feared, too, his knees felt ridiculously weak as the stress of holding one position for so long was released. The pounding in his head had redoubled.

_And none of this matters because you have to get going. Neal is counting on you._

Just for a moment, Peter allowed himself to stand there, breathing deep. He bent his knees and moved his arms to speed up the recirculation, to get his muscles used to motion again. The tingling had been replaced by pain—the kind of pain you got when your foot fell asleep, except in this case it was a magnitude of ten, and seemingly over his entire upper body.

He grimaced, waiting for the pain to fade. After a few moments, it had diminished to a manageable level, and he was ready to move.

Now he had one more thing to do before he went looking for Neal and Regal. He had to arm himself.

Improvising a weapon was always an option—if he had to. Hell, he'd have little compunction about strangling Regal with his bare hands if necessary. But given that Regal had a gun, it only made sense to equalize the firepower as much as possible.

_Don't want to bring a knife to a gunfight._

The next order of business, then, was to lay hands on the last remaining weapon available: Regal's Glock, the gun that Neal had grabbed for when he'd first woken up, Instead, with his hands bound, he'd sent it spinning under the shelves and had been unable to reach it. Peter was praying that he himself wouldn't have the same problem.

He walked—well, okay, it was more stumbling than walking—over to where he thought the gun had disappeared and knelt down gingerly, wincing at the creakiness in his joints. Jesus, he felt like he'd aged ten years since getting up this morning.

The bottom shelf wasn't far off the ground, just high enough for the gun to slide underneath. Hopefully it was also high enough that his hand could fit under there. If not, then he'd need to come with Plan B—and quickly.

Peter peered down. He took a moment to strip off his suit jacket—way too confining—and unbutton his cuffs. He was going to need all the range of motion he could get.

The gun wasn't visible from this angle. _Please don't let it be too far away. _He had to back up further and bend down lower, finally having to lie down flat, his cheek on the ground, to be able to see under the shelf. The smooth concrete was pleasantly cold against his overheated skin.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted the weapon, fortunately not too far away. Peter had feared he'd have to waste precious time—time they might not have—finding a pole or some other tool to reach the gun, but it looked as if he'd be able to just reach it with his arm.

Carefully he extended his arm. His plan was to go slightly to the right of where the gun was, getting a little beyond it if possible, and use a sweeping motion to bring it toward him. He didn't want to risk just banging into it, as Neal had done, and sending it further away out of reach.

It was a sound strategy, right up to the point where Peter realized that his hand wouldn't fit under the shelf. _Damn. _He flattened his hand, pressed it on the floor as hard as he could, and slid it under. This time he got a little further, but when he got to the meat of his hand and his knuckles, he again met resistance.

_Shit._

Peter thought about pulling back. He could hunt for something to poke under the shelf with. But where would he find what he needed? How long would it take? What would Regal do if he returned and found Peter gone?

The first two questions he had no answers to. But the third—with frightening certainty, he knew the answer to that one. He knew exactly what Regal would do.

_He'll hurt Neal to draw you out. He'll make Neal scream, so you'll hear it._

His gut told him there was no choice, that there wasn't time to conduct a search. He needed to get the gun now. It was only a few inches away, for Christ's sake.

Following his gut usually served him well. So he gritted his teeth and forced his hand, his wrist, into the too-narrow space between the shelf and the concrete floor. He was conscious of the pain in his knuckles first as they scraped the rough underside of the shelf. There were holes in the metal at regular intervals and the edges were sharp; no one had bothered to file them.

He kept going, kept forcing his arm further under, feeling first his shirt and then the skin on his wrist and forearm being shredded as he pushed on. His blood was warm and wet as pain ripped through him. Peter bit his lip to keep from crying out, tasting copper in his mouth. Swallowing the blood made him gag; he had to concentrate on not vomiting.

_Keep going._

Another thrust and it felt as if his whole arm was soaked in blood. The pain had somehow gotten worse; now it was like fire, burning tracers up and down his arm. He mouthed curses he couldn't risk saying.

One more push and he was _there_, trying to breathe through gritted teeth, afraid even that was too loud. The smooth metal of the gun felt cool against his fingers. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks which, he realized an instant later, might have been premature.

Because his arm was stuck.

_No. If you got in, you can get out. And blood makes a great lubricant._

Peter drew in a quick breath and pulled back. Nothing. He was trapped.

He reached his free hand, his left hand, around to brace against the shelves and pushed as hard as he could, lips pressed tightly together to prevent any sound from escaping.

Still stuck.

Wrenching one last time, a mighty and excruciating pull, and finally he got some traction.

Surely his arm wasn't _really_ being pulled from his body. It just seemed like it.

He wasn't imagining the feeling of his own skin tearing, though. _That, _he knew,was all too real.

And then his arm came free. _Or what's left of it_, he thought, almost laughing and realized he was lightheaded from the pain.

He lay there for a moment, gasping for breath and trying to think about something other than the searing agony blazing up and down his arm that threatened to become his whole world.

Finally Peter turned his head to look at his arm, swallowing hard at what he saw. _What a mess._ It looked as bad as it felt, which was saying something. And even more blood than he'd feared. _When you rip the skin off something, it does tend to bleed, _the practical part of his mind said.

He was bleeding, all right. He should probably try to bandage that. But it would take time he didn't have. And he had nothing to use, anyway.

There was nothing for it. A minor problem in the grand scheme of things. If he didn't get off his ass soon and find Neal, a few scrapes on his arm were going to be the least of his problems.

And as ugly as his arm looked, the sight of the gun made up for it. Because right now, to his eyes, the gun looked _beautiful. _

Peter climbed to his feet, reveling in the feel of the weapon in his hand. Adrenaline flowed through him, helping to push the pain to a back corner of his mind and make it something he could worry about later. For the first time since this nightmare had started, Peter felt in control and the feeling was a rush.

He had a weapon, he was basically okay, and it was time to take this bastard down.

Using his left hand, Peter wiped sweat away and then checked the Glock to make sure it was ready to fire. He shouldn't have used his gun hand to get the weapon, he now knew. Too bad he hadn't thought of that thirty seconds ago. His right hand was shaking a little, and that was worrisome. He grimaced and let his right arm fall to his side. He was a good marksman under normal circumstances, but this was anything but normal. So much of shooting was confidence; with his hand slick with blood and his arm on fire and trembling uncontrollably, his confidence was at a low ebb.

With any luck, he wouldn't have to fire. But luck had been in short supply so far today.

Stealth was essential, so Peter toed his shoes off before beginning to creep down the aisle. Walking around in his socks felt bizarre, but he needed every advantage he could get. His first instinct was to run in the direction Neal and Regal had gone, to find them as quickly as possible, but Peter knew he had to proceed with all caution. He'd get only one chance to do this, and both their lives depended on his getting it right. And he was still at a disadvantage. Regal was mostly uninjured, he had a weapon, and most importantly, he had Neal.

Maybe when he found them, Neal would be a safe distance away from Regal. But Peter wasn't going to count on that. And he couldn't risk a repeat of the earlier fiasco. He couldn't let Regal use Neal against him again.

Peter's big advantage was the element of surprise, and he'd have to use it well. Which meant that he had to be completely quiet, and he had to locate Regal without the man seeing him first.

He ran through the layout of the warehouse in his mind. It wasn't complicated. Just one long set of shelves, maybe 10 rows total, with a hallway running along the wall at either end. There had also been a few doors along the hallway they'd entered—offices, maybe, or locked storage.

Regal and Neal could be a few aisles down, or in one of the rooms. He'd have to work his way down silently until he found them and then figure out how best to approach.

At the end of the aisle, he stopped to listen. For a few seconds he heard nothing.

Then he picked up the sound of Regal's voice. Peter couldn't make out the words, which likely meant he wasn't in the next aisle, but Peter couldn't take any chances.

Slowly and carefully, he peeked out beyond the end of the shelves that hid him, looking left—the way Neal and Regal had gone. There was no way they could be anywhere to the right—he would have seen them.

His quick look had revealed nothing. Peter took a deep breath, tightened his grip on the gun, and stepped around the corner into the empty space that ran along the ends of the shelves. He was now exposed; if Regal came down to the end of any of the aisles, he'd see Peter.

But the man was nowhere to be seen.

Pausing again, he listened for Regal. There was a weird, deadened quality to the sound in here, but the voice didn't seem too close. He followed the soft murmur of Regal's voice and kept heading left.

He hadn't heard Neal's voice. That was alarming, but he couldn't afford to waste time worrying about what that might mean. _He wants to use him, not kill him_, Peter reminded himself.

The thought should have been reassuring; instead, it was mostly disturbing.

Reaching the opening that marked the next aisle, he peered down it, seeing no one. He continued to work his way down to the next aisle, similar to the way he'd searched for Neal when all this had started, except that now he was being much more cautious, and trying to ignore the agony burning up and down his arm.

Regal's voice was coming through more clearly now. He took a quick glance to the right, back the way he'd come, seeing nothing but the trail of blood that was dripping from his arm.

They had to be nearby, he decided. Or, at least, Regal was. He still hadn't heard Neal.

Peter took a deep, focusing breath and he reached the edge of the next set of shelving. He stood stock-still, listening and hearing only silence.

_Shit._ Either Regal had stopped talking or he'd moved. And there was only one way to find out which it was.

_Now or never._

Peter risked a quick glance around the boxes and down the aisle.

Finally he'd found them.

They were about a quarter of the way down the aisle—perhaps fifteen feet away. Regal stood in profile, looming predatorily over Neal. Peter's stomach flipped at the sight of his consultant, once again on the ground, half-sitting, half-lying against the boxes, looking chillingly vulnerable. Neal's head was lolling backward and his eyes were closed.

Okay, no help there—but Peter hadn't really expected any.

His sight line to Regal was clear. Regal was facing Neal, facing left, so Peter couldn't see the position of his gun. He assumed it was still in his right hand.

Peter ducked back to safety, just for an instant, and gathered himself. He would order Regal to drop his weapon—and he'd be ready to fire immediately when Regal refused. The man would probably go for Neal, just as he had before—Peter rather doubted that Regal had really been convinced by Neal's 'betrayal.'

Peter was just about to step out from the shelves, opening his mouth to yell. Then he saw the scene in front of him and stopped, closing his lips just in time to prevent the sound from escaping.

Regal was on the phone again.

_Dammit._

That was why he'd heard Regal's voice and no one else's. He was talking on his cell. If Peter acted now, he'd alert whoever was on the other end of the line, triggering all kinds of potential unknown dangers.

And where the hell was the backup? Peter was starting to fear that Neal might have hallucinated that part. Yes, mobilization took time, travel took time, but still . . . .

Right now, it didn't matter though. They weren't here yet, so it was up to him. Peter sneaked another quick look.

_Shit._

More bad news. Neal hadn't changed position, but Regal had. He'd moved to his left and crouched down right next to Neal. Regal's cell was in his left hand as he murmured into it. Peter couldn't see his right hand, because Regal's body was blocking it, but if he still held the gun, then it was likely pointing somewhere in the vicinity of Neal's chest.

And he was so very, very close to Neal.

Tension hummed through Peter as he realized that he had to wait. He couldn't risk an abrupt ending to Regal's phone conversation, couldn't risk giving the man's accomplices reason to hurry here any more quickly than they already were. Unless Regal overtly threatened Neal, the sensible course of action was to bide his time. His very skin itched with the need to do something, _anything_, to help Neal, to end this, but he knew he couldn't. It would be the height of foolhardiness to act now, and it would put Neal at greater risk.

No. He had to wait, goddamnit.

He heard Regal's low chuckle. Regal was talking so quietly; Peter wondered, heart racing, if it was because he didn't want Neal to come to and hear him.

Waiting behind the shelter of the shelves, Peter listened, straining to hear.

. . . bond forgery," Regal was saying. "But that's just the tip of the iceberg with our Neal."

The whole situation, having to sit there and do nothing, was making Peter livid. But it was hearing Regal's casual use of the possessive "our" with regard to Neal, talking about him like . . . like a goddamned piece of _property_, that nearly sent him over the edge. It made Peter's hand clench tighter around the gun, it forced him to take measured breaths, to remind himself that no, he could _not_ run down the aisle at that moment and squeeze Regal's throat until _he_ was the one begging . . . .

" . . . quite the entertaining sort," Regal said, capping it with a suggestive little laugh that made Peter's skin crawl. "You'll see."

Peter seethed. The pain in his arm spiked and he relaxed his grip on the gun with a conscious effort. He blinked; the warehouse seemed darker, somehow. Glancing up quickly, he looked at the fluorescent lights to see if they were flickering again. Was something wrong with the power?

When he looked overhead, he got a shock.

_The ceiling was tilting._

No, he realized, a heart-stopping instant later. It wasn't the ceiling, or the lights - it was _him_. Dizziness was creeping in, threatening his equilibrium. His legs felt frighteningly weak and everything was beginning to take on a strange, hazy quality, like nothing was real . . . .

_No, this is very real. You're about to black out and you're in very real trouble._

Grabbing onto the shelf with his left hand, Peter clutched it with a death grip, and relaxed his throbbing right arm. He'd been trying to keep the arm elevated to slow the flow of blood, but it was too much of a strain. He couldn't do it, he was just too tired . . . .

Peter let himself lean against the boxes, allowing them to take some of his weight and took deep breaths as he closed his eyes, just for a moment, trying to conserve the energy he had left. His stomach churned threateningly.

This was what blood loss did to you, he knew. It sapped your strength; it made you sick and unsteady and weak. He'd lost more blood than he'd realized, enough that he was on the verge of passing out, and he couldn't afford that.

_Neal _couldn't afford that.

After waiting as long as he dared, and telling himself that he felt marginally better, Peter opened his eyes, blinking furiously to clear his vision.

_Not now. You cannot pass out now. _

He tried to will away the lightheadedness and the exhaustion by focusing his mind on everything he'd been trying to avoid thinking about. Peter let himself think about what would happen if he gave in to the fatigue and the pain now. He thought about what Regal would do to Neal if Peter didn't stop him. He thought of Regal's goons, injecting Neal as he lay there, defenseless. Of Neal, drugged and helpless, waking up God-knows-where, alone and confused. He thought of Regal, eager to coerce Neal in unspeakable ways, taking pleasure in hurting him if Neal resisted and, of course, Neal probably _would_ resist at some point because he was, after all, _Neal_ . . . .

_Once I've had him for a bit, he'll learn that I'm extraordinarily persistent when I have the whip hand. _

_Rest assured that I'll bring Neal to heel. And I'll enjoy it—much more than he will._

As awful as they were, the horrifying thoughts helped to sharpen the edge of his desperation. Or maybe it was just being able to stand for a moment, leaning against the boxes so he didn't have to support all of his weight. Whichever it was, after a minute his head felt clearer, and the dizziness had receded a bit.

Then Peter caught the words ". . . should be fun. Yes. . . Soon."

And it was that moment that finally, _finally_, Regal clicked the phone off and slipped it into his pocket.

_This is it._

"Oh, Neal," Regal said appreciatively, and he leaned in, reached his right hand out to Neal again, and now Peter caught a glimpse of his weapon, held loosely. "I am _so_ looking forward to getting to know you."

_Bastard. _He'd hoped Regal would stand up and move away, but no such luck. With the man in such close proximity to Neal, Peter feared a repeat of the scene from earlier if he announced his presence too soon. Regal could once again try to grab Neal and gain the upper hand. And Peter couldn't fire—Regal was right on top of Neal, he was too close. Peter didn't think he could risk it.

So he stepped out, into full view—or what would have been if Regal hadn't mostly had his back to Peter—and advanced on the man, as rapidly and soundlessly as he could. _Screw it. He wasn't going to warn this bastard. Change of plan. _His strategy now was to get to Regal before he ever knew that Peter was there.

Before he knew that Peter was coming for him.

It was a good plan. And it almost worked.

_TBC…._

_A/N - Another monster of a chapter; everyone who said they enjoyed those should be pleased! I actually did some combining, here, to try to move things along . . . . _

_Hope everyone has enjoyed this latest installment. As always, I am incredibly grateful for all the reviews (you have no idea how exciting they are to read!) and eager to hear your thoughts._


	13. Lighthouses

Critical Hour 13

**Chapter 13 – Lighthouses**

"_**We are all the captains of our own ships sailing the sea of life, but in times of stormy weather, you will discover true friends when they don't hesitate to be a lighthouse."**_

— Dodinsky

* * *

Peter's plan to take Regal by surprise should have worked.

In fact, it came really, really close to working.

Except that when Peter had taken three steps—meaning he was too far away to duck back to safety, but not close enough to reach his quarry—Regal heard him. Or sensed him. Whichever it was, he reacted to Peter's presence.

Then everything seemed to happen at once—and simultaneously slow down.

Regal started to turn. Peter saw the gun glinting in his hand.

_He's going for you, not Neal._

Peter didn't hesitate. He yelled, "Don't move!" as he pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession.

It should have been easy. Just . . . ridiculously easy. The shot was from close range, after all. An FBI agent facing deadly force just shouldn't miss from this distance. But Regal had become a moving target, with unexpected quickness. Between that and Peter's blood-slicked hand, his shaking arm, the feeling of lightheadedness, and, above all, his terror that he'd inadvertently hit Neal, still lying prone to Regal's left, and so close, so frighteningly close—both rounds that Peter fired missed to the right.

Not by much. Regal flinched, so it had been close enough to scare him and to disrupt his movement as he tried to turn his gun on Peter.

Then just as Peter was about to fire again, a new obstacle presented itself.

Finding some reserve of energy, Neal unexpectedly reared up from where he lay, lunging at Regal. He was probably aiming for Regal's gun hand, but uncoordinated as he was, it ended up being Neal just throwing himself at the man, hoping to make contact.

It wasn't graceful, but it succeeded. For the second time that day, Neal crashed into Regal, who lost his grip on the gun as he and Neal tumbled to the floor. For a moment, Neal was on top and grunting loudly as Regal bucked underneath, lying face-down and trying to throw Neal off. Peter ran toward them, breathing hard. The Glock was useless to him now; he couldn't fire, not with Neal in the way.

Then Regal brought his right elbow up and back into Neal. _Into his bad shoulder,_ Peter realized an instant later, because Neal screamed then, really _screamed, _and it sounded nothing like Neal—it almost didn't even sound human . . . .

Something snapped in Peter, and he was dimly aware that he was shouting too, as he charged forward. He saw Neal fall back, rolling in pain on the concrete floor, quiet now except for the shuddering, agonized gasps he couldn't contain. He saw Regal sliding the opposite way, scrabbling across the floor, going for the gun Neal had dislodged from his fingers.

"Freeze, Regal! I will shoot!"

Regal ignored him. Peter was almost glad, because his promise to shoot had mostly been a lie. He was practically on top of Regal now, which meant he was perfectly positioned to bash him in the head with the gun. Peter could have shot the man, justifiably so, but he realized in that moment that he didn't want to. Not really. A bullet was almost too good for him, and it would make one hell of a goddamned mess—in more ways than the obvious. Shooting an unarmed man in the back from close range would create a lot more paperwork than Peter felt like doing. Plus, thanks to Neal, the weapon Regal had dropped was out of his reach; he was scrambling toward it, but he'd never make it.

And so, with a rush of heady joy, Peter brought the gun butt down on Regal's head. Doing a little _message-sending _of his own.

"I _told_ you he would never work for you, _you bastard,_" Peter said, breathless, as he slammed the gun down again into Regal's skull. And kept doing it. Multiple times. Until he stopped moving.

And, okay, yes, _after_ Regal had stopped moving.

God, but it felt good.

If someone else had been there, they would have stopped him. _Peter, that's enough, they'd say, alarmed, and hold him back._ But there was no one to restrain him. Neal might have, if he'd been aware enough. Neal wasn't violent. _You've never seen me do evil, _Neal had said to him earlier, causing Peter to flash back to the only time when he'd ever feared Neal would hurt someone physically. Of course, that one time had been full-value: when Neal had nearly shot Fowler. Ironic that he'd talked Neal down that day. Peter wondered, if Neal had been aware, if he'd have done the same for Peter now. Or would he have given in to his rage, as Peter had?

Peter kind of doubted it. Neal had been unconscious for the worst of what Regal had done.

Still, he could hear a voice in his head.

_You're not a killer. This isn't who you are._

They were Peter's words, when Neal had been holding a gun on Fowler. But now it was _Neal's_ voice saying them.

So, after raining a few extra blows down on Regal's head, Peter stopped. He could easily have hit Regal all day—and he knew he could have killed the man. But he was an FBI agent and thus had rules to follow.

_Too bad . . . ._

Regal had gone limp, his motionless body splayed slightly.

Peter risked a quick glance at Neal. He was lying where he'd fallen, no longer moving, on his side with his face turned away. Peter felt dread rising inside him as he pulled out his handcuffs, the ones Regal had forced him to use on himself. It was indescribably satisfying to be able to use them on _him_.

"Neal? Are you with me?"

No answer.

Peter pulled Regal's wrists behind his back and cuffed them. He pulled on the bracelets to assure they were locked, then cinched them down. If the cuffs were quite a bit tighter than they needed to be . . . well, the bastard deserved far worse. He reached over to grab Regal's pistol. That task complete, he looked back again at Neal, hoping to see some signs of consciousness.

"Neal! Talk to me. Are you okay?"

He thought about Neal, managing to get up even while restrained, and suddenly decided that he wasn't going to take any chances. Wincing at the shooting pain in his suddenly-weak right arm, he dragged Regal a few feet to the nearest shelf support pole—_Christ, he was heavy_—and released one wrist before quickly looping the handcuff chain around the pole and recuffing him.

Peter looked him over, satisfied that the unconscious Regal was securely attached to the shelves and couldn't duplicate Neal's earlier heroics.

He rushed to Neal's side, felt for a pulse. It was reassuringly there, if alarmingly slow. "Neal, you need to wake up now. Come on."

Neal let out a low, guttural noise, and Peter sighed with relief even as his gut twisted at the underlying agony in the sound.

"Hey. Neal. Talk to me." He thought about slapping Neal's face to rouse him, but it was so battered that Peter couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead he carefully put his hand on Neal's head, rubbing awkwardly, hoping he'd respond to the contact. Peter was careful to avoid the area where Neal's hair was stiff to the touch, caked with dried blood.

Finally, Neal started to move. Peter helped him turn over, chest tightening as Neal groaned in pain. His eyes were fluttering, but not quite open; under the blood and the bruises, his pallor was unnervingly gray.

"No. Can't . . . breathe. Help me . . . sit," Neal gasped.

Peter didn't know how wise that was, but he supported Neal's head and back as best he could until the younger man was once again propped against the boxes. Neal leaned his head back and closed his eyes, letting out another groan.

"Talk to me, Neal. Are you okay?"

"Fuck. Hurts," Neal said through gritted teeth, as if he hadn't heard the question. Or maybe he had, and that was his answer.

"How'd you end up on the floor?" Peter demanded. "He hurt you again?"

When he got no response, Peter spoke again, sharply now. "Neal. Did. He. Hurt. You."

"Huh? Uh, well . . . " Neal said vaguely.

"I'll take that as a yes," Peter said, anger flooding through him anew. "Now, I need you to open your eyes for me."

"Kinda came at me and he got my—my shoulder, he just . . . then I kinda lost my balance," Neal muttered, eyes still shut.

_Bastard. _Peter put aside his rage at their suspect for more important things. "Neal, look at me. Come on, now."

A few seconds passed before Neal blinked his eyes open. "There you are," Peter said, satisfied, even though Neal's eyes had a cloudy, unfocused look to them. Even though his pupils were a little larger than they should be.

"Oh, 'm here all right," Neal said. He was slurring his words just a bit, like he had when he'd woken up the first time. "'nfortunately."

Peter leaned closer, gently turning Neal's head toward him so he could peer into his eyes.

"What're you looking at?" Neal asked crossly, sounding as if he were resisting a childish urge to slap Peter's hand away from his chin. "What—they're not blue anymore?"

"There's that famous Neal Caffrey wit," Peter said in an absent tone. "I'm checking your pupils."

"Oh." It took Neal's muddled brain a moment to figure out what Peter was worried about. "So how—how are they?"

"Roughly the same size."

"Yayyyy," Neal said, drawing out the word in a giddy, inappropriate way that did nothing to assuage Peter's concerns about his mental state. "I mean, 's good, right? What do I win—do I get a—a prize?"

"A prize?" Peter sighed. "Your prize is a trip to the hospital to make sure they stay that way. Eventually."

Neal frowned. "Well, that's no fun."

"Can't argue with you there. Where does it hurt?" Peter said, going back to Regal now that he'd gotten Neal conscious again.

"Where doesn't it?" Neal said, sighing, all his focus apparently wrapped up in trying not to move.

Or so Peter thought. He should have known better.

"Oh, God," Neal said. Peter looked over at him, concerned. Neal had been ashen before, but now he'd gone completely white. And his voice was . . . well, _frantic _was the first word that came to mind to describe it. Except that Neal generally didn't do _frantic_.

"What?" Peter asked, all senses instantly on high alert. "What's wrong?" Are you all right?" Then he glanced around, fearing Neal had spotted another armed opponent, or something equally terrible.

But Neal hadn't discovered some new danger. No, he'd discovered Peter's mess of an arm—and he wasn't taking it well. He'd gone from dazed to furious in about two-point-five seconds.

"Oh, my God," Neal repeated, but he was starting to sound less horrified and more venomous. "That goddamned _fucking bastard. _Did he—did he _shoot_ you? When'd that happen? How long was I out? Peter, I—"

"Only a few seconds. Take it easy, Neal. He didn't shoot me."

"Th—that's a lot of blood, Peter." The slight stammer was jarring. Neal never stuttered. And his voice . . . he'd said it like he thought Peter was lying to him.

Peter looked down, grimacing at the sight. It _was_ a hell of a lot of blood, there was no denying it. He'd been hurt on the job before—thankfully not often—but this was, hands-down, the most gruesome injury he'd ever suffered. Not only were his arm and hand covered in blood, but the whole right side of his shirt was saturated with it as well.

"It looks worse than it is," he said defensively. "It's not that—"

Neal didn't even let him finish. "What happened?" Apparently, seeing Peter injured took Neal's usual persistence to a whole new level.

Peter sighed. "I had a little trouble getting the gun out from under the shelves. I'm not as agile as _some people _and I just scraped my arm a little, that's all."

Neal's eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hairline. "A little scrape. Huh. You call _that a _ _little_ _scrape?_"

"I'm telling you, it's not that bad," Peter insisted.

"Okay, _Dr. Burke. _Sure, 's fine. It's just great," Neal snapped sarcastically. "It's like—like something in a horror movie. And I helped cause it," he added, suddenly contrite, looking stricken. "Jesus, Peter. I'm sorry, I . . . " his voice trailed off uncertainly.

"You have nothing to apologize for. Forget it," Peter said, using the voice that brooked no disagreement. "Not another word."

A few seconds passed, and then Peter glanced over at Neal, wanting to get an acknowledgment out of him. Instead, he saw that Neal's eyes had slid shut again. _Not good._

"I didn't mean that literally, Neal. Talk."

"Mmmm," Neal mumbled.

"Normally, I can't get you to _stop_ talking. Come on, say something."

"Like what?" Neal asked dully.

"Anything."

"Really not in the mood, Peter."

"Which is why you need to keep talking. No dozing off with a head injury, Caffrey—didn't anyone ever tell you that?" he called out as he busied himself with Regal. Peter didn't want to have to explain to the FBI—_or, more importantly, to Elizabeth_—that after all they'd been through, he had let Neal sleep himself into some kind of coma.

Neal grunted.

"Did you hear me, Neal?"

"Not . . . dozin'," Neal said, with a petulance that make him sound like an angry toddler. Peter glanced at him; Neal's eyes were closed. "Jus' restin'."

_Yeah, sure you are. _Peter tried another tactic, hoping the lure of conversation would be impossible for Neal to resist, even when in a fog. "You know, speaking of prizes, if there _was_ a prize awarded for most head injuries on the same day, you'd win, hands-down,"

"Over … achiever," Neal said, with an audible note of pride.

"Yeah, except that's not a prize anyone wants to win," Peter retorted.

He began to search Regal—and almost immediately found what he was looking for.

"Um, Peter?" Again, Neal sounded genuinely alarmed and Peter, responding to the anxiety in his voice, looked over at him immediately. "Why's he have—that?"

Neal, suddenly much more awake, was staring, wide-eyed, at the photo of Elizabeth, which Peter had just extracted from Regal's jacket pocket.

Peter fought the urge to swear. He hadn't meant for Neal to see that. He looked down at the photo, at Elizabeth's brilliant smile, so he wouldn't have to look at Neal. "Bastard took it out of my wallet."

"What for?"

Peter hesitated. "To . . . get to me. He knew about El. And he—he said he was going to show it to you."

"To _me_?" Neal said, nonplussed.

"Yeah. Along with the pictures he took of me. And . . . he took pictures of you when you were unconscious," Peter said abruptly. The words came out in a rush; he hadn't even meant to say them. Not now, maybe not ever.

"Ew." Neal frowned. "Kinda . . . unsettling. Lemme guess—photography class at the Annex?"

Peter didn't get the joke—_oh yeah, he wasn't there for that, _Neal remembered belatedly. His brain really was operating in a lower gear today.

Instead of laughing, Peter gave Neal a deadly serious glare. Then he glanced away, looking uncomfortable. "He talked a lot about . . . leverage. You can probably figure it out."

Neal ignored the part about himself—of course. "Did he—but I don't . . . how'd he know about Elizabeth?"

"Someone at the museum saw you two at the Stanzler gallery event."

"Oh?" Neal said, confused. Then his eyes narrowed. "_Oh_," he said, comprehension slowly dawning.

"Yeah. He knew . . . he knew all about you. From that. And us coming to the museum, the other day."

Neal stared back, perhaps once again reading in Peter's expression everything that the agent couldn't say—it was, after all, one of Neal's many talents.

"Oh, yeah," Neal said at last, apparently putting together the disjointed fragments of his own fuzzy memories with the stricken look on Peter's face. "Umm, what'd you say? Personal . . . personal thing?"

"Personal criminal plaything," Peter mumbled, hating the very sound of words, hating that he had to say them. He didn't want to talk about it. It had been too near a miss. One he didn't think he'd ever stop being pissed at himself for allowing to happen. Neal had saved him, but it was supposed to be the other way around. That was two times in a row, as a matter of fact. First Keller, now this.

A brief silence ensued in which Peter checked his wallet, continued searching Regal, and kept busy so he wouldn't have to look at Neal. Images of what Regal had done to Neal kept flitting through his mind and he tried, resolutely to push them out.

"Where the hell is the backup?" he muttered to himself. "You _did _call for backup, right?"

" 'Course. Would I lie to you?" Neal asked, sounding surprised - and mildly insulted. "I mean, I might, but not about somethin' like that . . . ."

"Not _lied_, Neal," Peter said patiently. "But imagined, maybe? Are you sure you didn't, I don't know, hallucinate it or something?"

"Nope." Neal was definitive. "I called'em. Just like I said. Did say it would take a while . . . ."

Peter still wasn't looking at him.

"Hey, Peter," Neal said, voice soft. It was the _I'm serious_ whisper again. "Hey."

Finally, Peter met his gaze.

"I really wouldn't, y'know," Neal said.

"Wouldn't what?"

"Work for him. Or . . . break that easy."

"As if you have to tell _me_ that," Peter said, in his best exasperated voice. "Neal, it's me, remember? There is probably no one in the world who knows better than me how hard it is to get you to do something you don't want to do."

"Yeah, guess so." Neal laughed tiredly. "And . . . you know all that stuff I said wasn't true, right?"

Peter didn't have to ask what _all that stuff_ was. "Again, you don't have to tell me that."

After a silence that lasted just a shade too long, Peter added, "And for the record, I—I didn't mean what I said, either."

He had a quick, vivid recall of that moment—when Neal had mockingly asked if he were disappointed, and he'd shot back with, _Disappointed, but not surprised._

That flash of emotion in Neal's eyes—at the time, Peter had failed to diagnose it. Now he was pretty sure of what it had been.

It had been hurt.

Neal would probably never admit it, but he'd be just as affected by any perceived lack of faith on Peter's part as Peter had been by the thought of Neal's potential betrayal. Being a professional con artist, Neal just hid it a hell of a lot better. There had been only the tiniest crack in the smooth façade, barely visible to the naked eye.

_Whereas I was practically standing there with my mouth open . . . ._

"So you weren't . . . freaked out or anything?" Neal pressed, unwittingly echoing Peter's thoughts.

"Nah," Peter said, carefully casual. _Because freaked out is not how I would describe it,_ he thought, to ease the conscience that was sternly rebuking him for not quite telling Neal the truth.

"But you were . . ." Neal hesitated, uncharacteristically, as if pondering what word to use. He resumed after a few awkward seconds. "You were . . . worried when I told him about the anklet key, though. I could tell." He didn't sound rancorous or reproachful—just matter-of-fact.

"Maybe a momentary qualm," Peter allowed. It figured that Neal would have caught that; he missed very little, especially when it came to Peter. "Just until—"

"Til you realized what I was doing." Neal finished his sentence, as he so often did. "'S okay, though. I wanted you to be worried, y'know? To help sell it."

"Oh, you sold the hell out of it, Neal," Peter said, mind shying away from the memory of the cruel, unrecognizable smile he'd seen on Neal's face, the ice-cold look in his eyes.

"Aw, thanks," Neal said, sounding pleased. Peter had to resist the urge to roll his eyes; he hadn't exactly meant it as a compliment, but, of course, Neal _would_ take that way. "You were pretty good too, Peter."

Peter didn't see much to laud himself about. "In what way?"

"When you pretended to believe me," Neal said. "You know. Believe that I'd . . . turned on you."

"Oh, yeah. That." Peter cleared his throat. "Well . . . ."

"Was really good, Peter. Convincing." Neal's face held nothing but admiration. And it looked real.

"Uh. Thanks," Peter answered, and then stopped because he didn't know what else to say. If Neal noticed his hesitation, he didn't comment on it.

"Knew you'd get free and I hoped you could get the other gun. Sorry 'bout your face. And your arm, didn't know that would happen," Neal said, casting a worried glance at Peter's mangled arm. "And for—for hitting you. I uh . . . went a little . . . overboard there."

"It's okay."

"Just kind of . . . in the moment." Neal let out a long sigh. "And I—I needed him to trust me. To let me lead him away from you. So I could keep him from . . . y' know," Neal finished, almost in a whisper.

_From shooting me_, Peter's mind supplied. But all he said was, "I know. You have _nothing_ to apologize for. You did good."

After a minute, Neal said, "Truth, Peter?" and Peter had only an instant to reflect on the irony of Neal Caffrey asking for _honesty_ before his consultant said, "Did I scare you?"

"Sometimes you do, Neal, yeah." Peter admitted. In the grand tradition of Caffrey himself, Peter had neatly sidestepped the specific question; Neal was apparently fading too fast to notice, though. "You're just so . . . so damn good at it." He didn't bother to define what 'it' was—there was no need.

"Yeah, ever since I was little, my . . . my . . ." Neal began, then hesitated before his voice broke off completely for a long moment before resuming. "You know, people . . . they always said that about me."

Unexpectedly, they had veered too close to Neal's past, Neal's family—topics Peter knew were off limits. And as badly as Peter wanted to know about them, he wasn't going to press it. Neal would tell him when he was ready.

And if Neal never was ready, that was okay, too.

"You took a hell of a personal risk, though, Neal," Peter told him, because it had to be said. Because he tried never to miss an opportunity to remind Neal to be careful, even though Peter had come to realize that these urgings had little to no effect on his CI's behavior. "I shouldn't have to tell you this, but just a reminder: if someone's threatening to kidnap you, a GPS tracker is a _good_ thing to have on your person."

"Oh, he already knew about it," Neal said, unfazed. He shifted, just a bit, and grunted in pain.

"But _you_ didn't know that," Peter countered. "Right?"

Neal frowned up at him and didn't answer right away. Finally he admitted, "Well, no. I didn't."

Peter continued. "And he didn't have the key—"

"That's right," Neal interrupted, face brightening. "Because you lied to 'im. And he believed you! Meant to tell you how proud I am for you pulling that off. Might be hope for you, yet."

Peter shook his head in frustration. He was trying to make a serious point. And as usual, Neal, who should have been paying attention and nodding solemnly and agreeing that Peter was right—instead, Neal was being . . . Neal.

Neal sensed it, of course—and refused to acknowledge it. "Also," he said, regretful once more, "speaking of that, I _am _sorry about your face, how he hit you. That's on me. I never woulda guessed that you'd lied to him about having the key. If I knew, I . . . I would have played that differently, I could've—"

Peter exhaled slowly, trying to stay patient. "I'm not talking about _that_, Neal. I'm talking about you making it way too easy for that nutcase to kidnap you."

"Calculated risk, giving him the key," Neal allowed. "But it was the best way to seal the deal. Convince him that I wanted to go willingly."

"While also eliminating our best chance of finding you. If it came to that."

"Nah," Neal insisted. "Didn't matter."

"The _hell _it didn't!" Peter said angrily. "Because—"

"_Because you always find me,_" Neal said, and the look in his eyes stopped Peter mid-bluster, made him forget the scolding he'd been about to deliver.

" 'nless . . . ." Neal started, then trailed off.

"Unless what?"

"Unless you're slipping," Neal mused thoughtfully. He reached up with his left arm to swipe at the blood trickling down his forehead. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against his arm for a moment.

Peter gave him a mock glare. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you never needed an anklet to find me before," Neal pointed out, blinking his eyes open to gaze innocently at Peter. "Are you admitting you couldn't track me down without it?"

"Hell, no," Peter shot back.

Neal smiled and Peter could have sworn there was something like relief in it. "Didn't think so. You not finding me is the _least _of my worries. Hey," he said, shifting gears, "don't forget my picks. I need those."

"Got'em," Peter answered. How utterly predictable of Neal to be more worried about his lock picks than his bureau ID or even his wallet, all of which Peter had extracted from Regal's pockets. "And speaking of your anklet . . . ."

"Yeah, figured you'd get around to that 'fore too long," Neal sighed. He dug into his pocket and produced the key, handing it up to Peter.

"Hey, since we're putting things on the record," Neal said. He'd squeezed his eyes shut again; Peter could see the little lines of pain around the corners. "Maybe I shouldn't bring this up, but I . . . I don't even wanna _think _about you not having all your—your . . . fingernails. You, uh . . . you know that, right?"

Peter hesitated. That had come out of the blue. "Ah. You heard that part, huh?" he asked uncomfortably.

"Bits and pieces, yeah." Neal hadn't opened his eyes. "Enough to be very . . . uh, really . . . ." he didn't finish the sentence.

_Freaked out, _Peter thought, supplying the words in his own mind.

"I know it, Neal," Peter muttered, because he didn't know what else to say. "I know."

"Yeah, what'm I saying? Course you do." Eyes still closed, Neal smiled, just a little grin, almost like he was smiling to himself.

Peter had never been more ready for a change of subject. He'd finished his search of Regal, which had taken longer than it should have because he was trying to avoid using his right arm. He'd hoped to keep the pain to a manageable level simply by not moving it, but that strategy had been less than successful.

Finally, Peter finished re-checking Regal's cuffs for the third time—just to be safe. That kind of obsessiveness wasn't like him, but Regal had made Peter paranoid in a way he just wasn't used to—and, frankly, didn't much like.

Satisfied that Regal was well and truly restrained, Peter turned back to Neal. "Okay, you ready? Time to get up."

He'd given Neal long enough to get himself together. They couldn't stay here. Peter had been weighing the options in his head, analyzing the pros and cons of trying to leave the warehouse altogether versus finding a room or office where he could barricade Neal . . . .

Neal looked up at him, bleary-eyed. "You c'n leave. I'll stay."

"Oh, okay," Peter shot back. "So you're just gonna stay here by yourself, then?"

"Well," Neal said seriously, considering, "if _you_ leave, then, yeah I'd be by myself. 'Cept for him"—Neal's eyes flicked quickly over to Regal and back—"but I wasn't counting him. Now, if you count him, then I wouldn't be—"

Peter made a mental note that, in Neal's case, at least, concussions and sarcasm weren't a good mix. "Neal, I wasn't being serious. There's no way in hell you can stay here."

"Sure, I can. I'm 'kay right here, really," Neal said drowsily. "He's all tied up. Back-up's on the way," he added, as if that would clinch things. As if Peter didn't know that already.

"Yeah, and so is whoever Regal called," Peter reminded him. "We need to get you somewhere safer in case they get here first."

Neal sighed. "This is plenty safe."

"No, it's not."

"You're here; I'm safe," Neal said, as if it were self-evident.

Peter swallowed the little lump that had formed in his throat. Despite all that had happened today, Neal's faith in him was unwavering. Peter didn't want to admit, even to himself, how much that meant.

"You say that now," Peter told him, grim-faced. "But you'll be singing a different tune if we have to fend off a bunch of goons armed with guns and syringes."

Neal looked baffled. "Syringes?"

"Not now, Neal. Focus. You need to get moving."

"Come on," Neal implored. "Really, I—I think 's better if I don't try to move right now."

"Sorry, Neal," Peter said, and he really was, because in his head he could still hear the sickening sound of Neal's scream when Regal had slammed his elbow into that injured shoulder. Neal was in bad shape; even the slightest movement was going to be agony for him, Peter knew, let alone the effort needed to get up and walk far enough to get someplace safe. "Sorry, I know it hurts, but we have to go."

The last thing in the world he wanted to do cause Neal any more pain. But, not for the first time today, he felt he had no choice.

"Peter, please, I'm serious. You c'n keep an eye out, I trust you. Can't I just stay here? Please?" Neal locked eyes with Peter, and Peter expected to see those infamous puppy-dog eyes Neal conjured up whenever he was trying to guilt Peter into doing something against the agent's better judgment. Instead he saw a look that stopped him cold, because it was pure, unvarnished desperation.

That desperation—and hearing Neal say _please, _not once but twice—shocked Peter like a dousing of icy water. This was so _not Neal_, it made Peter want to smash something—specifically, Regal's head. Again.

The pleading look in Neal's eyes, the beseeching note in his voice, were all wrong_._

_I bet he's enchanting when he begs._

Peter felt horror bubble up inside him as he suppressed a shiver. "This is not negotiable, Neal," he insisted, bending down next to him so Neal wouldn't notice how shaken he was. He would not—_could not_—let himself get outmaneuvered again.

At the sudden movement, a wave of dizziness washed over him and he had to close his eyes for a moment until it faded, grabbing onto the shelves to anchor himself and taking a couple of deep, steadying breaths.

Now he was remembering what Regal had said about entry points into the warehouse, about underground access from the neighboring building.

_Shit. _

His eyes flew open, and Peter glanced around apprehensively, afraid that an army of criminals was about to pop up through some goddamned trapdoor at any moment.

_You have to get him somewhere safe. Now._

"Here, I'm gonna help you up," he said, striving to project reassurance. "And if you can't walk, I—I'll carry you."

"Oh, God," Neal groaned. "Like I'd ever hear the end o' that." He took a deep breath, gathering himself. Then he extended his left arm, preparing to push up. A muffled expletive burst from his lips as the movement jarred his other arm, which was carefully nestled against his stomach. Slowly, gingerly, Neal shifted so he could begin to bend his legs to get the leverage needed to rise.

"Well, you did warn me," Peter said, trying to inject some levity into the situation. "About carrying you."

Neal glanced up at him, puzzled. _He doesn't remember that, either,_ Peter thought, sighing inwardly.

"Now, what was that 'bout . . . syringes?" Neal asked. That was Neal for you: persistent as always.

Peter ignored the question and put a hand under Neal's arm to help him up, wincing at the reawakened pain in his own injured arm. He should have kept his mouth shut about Regal's plans for Neal; he really didn't want to get into that again.

The gaps in Neal's memory were alarming, but before Peter could focus on that, he had something new—and much more frightening—to worry about.

Namely, the unmistakable noise of a door opening and slamming shut, followed by the sound of shoes thudding quickly across the concrete floor.

Someone was coming toward them. And fast.

It wasn't a team. They hadn't identified themselves as NYPD. Or FBI. Which, to Peter, could mean only one thing.

His worst fear had come true.

Regal's cohort had arrived. And he and Neal were sitting ducks.

_TBC…._

_A/N - This chapter is in memory of our devoted Old English sheepdog, Darcy, whom we lost this week, very suddenly. She was part of our family for twelve wonderful years and she is greatly missed, even as she'll always be in our hearts._

_Sorry for the delay in posting. Thank you for your patience and your continued reviews—they are so very appreciated!_


	14. The Ivy and the Wall

**Chapter 14 – The Ivy and the Wall**

_**True friends, like the ivy and the wall  
Both stand together and together fall.**_

— Thomas Carlyle

* * *

At the same moment, they both heard the sound of footsteps approaching. In the act of getting up, Neal hesitated, but Peter sprang into action.

After all, conning someone like Regal was Neal's specialty, but dealing with armed thugs was Peter's.

Peter moved quickly, adrenaline flowing through him again and giving him renewed strength. He forgot all about the burning agony in his arm and the relentless throbbing in his head. Everything else vanished in the face of the new danger they faced—the danger it was his job to confront. Drawing his weapon, Peter moved his hand from Neal's elbow to his shoulder, applying gentle pressure to push him back down to the floor.

A whole, rapid-fire conversation ensued then, wordless out of necessity. _Not that hard for him and Neal to do . . . ._

Neal, wide-eyed, looked up as Peter mouthed one word at him.

_Stay._

Shaking his head, Neal stared back, his brows drawing together in a rebellious frown. It was a look Peter recognized all too well; in this context, he knew exactly what it meant—without Neal having to say a word.

_I want to help you. I want to come with you._

Just as Peter had expected, there was no fear there. No, Neal wasn't worried about Peter leaving him alone. He was worried about _Peter_ being alone.

Peter shook his head definitively. _You need to stay here. _

And Neal . . . a few seconds ago, he'd been unable to even get on his feet without help. Now he was determined to rush headlong into a dangerous situation—because he thought Peter needed him.

But Peter had absolutely no intention of letting him take that risk.

He maintained firm pressure on Neal's shoulder and stared him down with an unyielding look that said _you're not going to change my mind, so stop trying. _Until Neal finally, reluctantly acquiesced, and rebellion became resignation.

Then he slipped the other gun—Regal's backup—into Neal's good hand, glancing down at it and then back meaningfully at Neal. _Be ready. Use it if you have to._

Neal looked grim, but he nodded acknowledgment. He didn't like guns, but he knew well enough what to do with one.

How good he'd be with his left hand was another question . . . _well, hopefully,_ Peter thought,_ it won't come to that._

Peter positioned himself in front of Neal as he assessed the situation, standing stock-still for an instant so he could listen. This was bad, but it could be worse. He was armed, basically unhurt, and from the sound of it, facing only one attacker, who probably wasn't expecting to find a threat. Peter would take those odds any day. He only wished Neal wasn't so exposed. He should have moved faster to get Neal somewhere safer.

He took a second to wipe his hand on his shirt—he was still losing an alarming amount of blood—and get a nice, solid grip on the Glock. With one last warning glance at Neal, Peter began to move. He didn't want to leave him, but it would be safer for Neal if Peter could draw the intruder away.

He was glad he'd taken his shoes off and could creep noiselessly to the end of the aisle. When he reached it, Peter stopped to listen again. The footsteps were still audible, but more measured now, like the person had slowed down. Keeping his body hidden behind the shelter of the shelves, Peter ducked his head out to take a quick look.

There he was. Approaching from the direction of the outside door, coming right toward Peter, but still a distance away. Stocky, dark hair, wearing some kind of uniform. Looking around and not being particularly careful—_well, he has no reason to be, he doesn't know you're waiting for him, _Peter reminded himself. And not visibly armed, fortunately. To Peter's eye, the man had the look of hired muscle, though. And he was carrying a bag. Peter's mouth went dry as Regal's words echoed in his mind.

_Tell him to bring his bag of tricks. And a syringe . . . ._

It took Peter only a second, maybe two, to make his decision. He wasn't going to wait. The closer the man came, the closer he'd get to Neal and Peter wanted to avoid that at all costs. So he took a deep breath and charged out into the open, weapon held in firing position, aimed at the man's chest. Peter had a nice, wide target there and he was grimly determined not to miss this time.

"Freeze! Federal agents!" Peter shouted in the most menacing tone he could muster. _Couldn't hurt to make the bastard think he was facing a whole army of feds._

Catching sight of him and looking shocked, the man complied. Quickly. _Maybe too quickly_, Peter thought, suddenly cognizant again of that strange, new-found paranoia that the day's events had spawned.

This time, it was the gnawing fear that someone was standing behind him, that this was a trap.

Again he thought about the underground access Regal had mentioned. _Dammit. They could get in through there, wherever it was. Maybe they already had. Maybe they were grabbing Neal right now, while he stood here. While Neal was alone and helpless . . . ._

_No. Not helpless. Neal has a gun. He can look out for himself. You have to neutralize this guy first._

He'd been surprised one too many times already, today. Peter had to fight the urge to sneak a look over his shoulder; he didn't want to give this son of a bitch a chance to do something while Peter was looking the other way, even if only for a second.

"Drop the bag," Peter commanded, advancing toward the man. "Hands in the air."

Again, the man did exactly as he was told. The bag fell to the floor with a thud and he raised his hands, frozen in place, as he stared, first at the Glock and then at Peter's face.

He also looked scared out of his mind. Given the emotions Peter had been experiencing, the sight of fear on _someone else's _face, for a change, made him viciously glad.

_Unless that was an act, too . . . ._

Then the man, still standing completely stationary, said uncertainly, "Are—are you Peter? Where's Neal? Is he okay?"

Peter stared, open-mouthed. _What the hell . . . . _Then panic raced through him as he realized that _someone was behind him; he could feel it. _

_Shit. _

Instantly he whirled, gun at the ready, trigger finger poised to fire.

It wasn't one of Regal's people. It was a surprised-looking Neal. Of course.

"Whoa, whoa, Peter—don't shoot," Neal said hoarsely. With his left hand, he clutched Regal's pistol in a death grip; Peter could see how badly his arm was shaking.

"_Jesus Christ, Neal!_" Peter yelled, automatically raising his weapon so it was no longer pointed dead-center at his partner's chest.

Neal looked beyond Peter, ignoring the simmering fury that should have made him appropriately penitent. He beamed, waving like someone greeting a long-lost friend. "Hey, Darryl!"

The man stared at Peter, still looking alarmed, and then shifted his gaze beyond him to Neal. "I—I was worried about you." He hesitated, then said, "They told me not to come, to stay outside, but when they didn't come, I just thought—"

Neal interrupted, "No, that's good. Peter, this is Darryl. S'okay. He's one of the good guys. He helped me, outside."

"I could have killed you," Peter growled at Neal, looking back and forth between the two of them. Somehow, Neal had managed to drag himself down to the end of the aisle and was clinging to the shelves. "And I _told_ you to stay put."

"I was being your backup," Neal said stubbornly. Then, at the sight of the scowl on Peter's face, he preempted yet another reprimand about disobeying orders—_one he probably knows by heart already, _Peter thought sourly—by hastily adding, "Anyway, I had to make sure you didn't shoot my good Samaritan. And thanks for the—the promotion, by the way. I think it's well deserved."

"Just once, could you do what you're—what? What promotion?"

"You said 'agents,' Neal explained helpfully. "Federal _agents_. Plural. There's no one else here yet. So that makes me an agent."

"No, that makes you someone with severe delusions of grandeur," Peter told him with a sigh. "And given that you're you, we can't even blame it on the head injury."

Neal smiled at him, then, and Darryl, eyes anxiously darting back and forth between the two of them, started smiling, too.

Peter's first instinct was to frown back, but he couldn't do it. He tried to sustain some anger, he really did, so he could give Neal the scolding he deserved for taking stupid risks and never listening to anything Peter said, but, somehow, it didn't feel so important now.

Anyway, it kind of seemed unfair to lecture Neal when his legs started to give way, and Peter and Darryl had to rush to him as one to ease his trip to the ground so he didn't bang his head. Again.

And then Peter heard the sound he'd been waiting to hear, for what felt like days.

The sound of a door bursting open. Of footsteps—lots of them. Of raised voices.

"_NYPD!"_

* * *

Busy with NYPD and SWAT, Peter still made sure to keep Neal in sight. Paranoia again, he guessed. It wasn't like Neal was going anywhere.

Even though the stress caused by Darryl's sudden appearance had probably taken a year off Peter's life, he was grateful for the man's presence now. He was keeping Neal occupied, keeping him talking as he sat on the ground beside him. The EMTs weren't here yet. Neal was drinking, taking little sips of water from a bottle Darryl had retrieved from his bag, and talking animatedly.

How much sense he was making, Peter didn't know, but at least he was awake and talking.

Peter walked back to the two of them. He heard Neal saying earnestly, "But what kind of food do they like? There must be something special that you can tell me."

Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes. That was Neal for you. Put him together with a complete stranger and Neal would not only charm them, but he'd also know their whole life story inside of three minutes.

Catching sight of Peter, Neal looked up brightly. "Hey, Peter, c'mere!" Neal said, voice excited. "Didn't really get a chance to introduce you properly. Peter, this is Darryl Rawlins, our good Samaritan. Darryl, this is Peter—I mean, Special Agent Peter Burke."

Peter started to stick out his right hand and then stopped abruptly, because it hurt like hell to move it. And also, it was a bloody mess; Neal hadn't been exaggerating much when he'd compared it to something out of a horror movie. "_Peter_ is fine," the agent assured him.

"When he's being all official, you have to call him _Agent Burke_," Neal confided. Peter suppressed a grin.

"Nice to meet you," Darryl said. "I've actually, uh, heard a lot about you," he added, an awkward, half-smile on his face.

Peter glanced, a little blankly, from him to Neal, who also was sporting a peculiar smile.

_Why did both of them look like they were about to burst out laughing?_

He decided to ignore it. "Oh, the pleasure's mine, Mr. Rawlins. I'm sure Neal has thanked you, and I need to do the same. I don't know where we'd be if you hadn't come through for us."

"Please, call me Darryl. And I'm glad I could help." The man gave a self-deprecating shrug. "I didn't even do that much."

"You didn' run me over," Neal put in before Peter could say anything to dispute this obviously erroneous statement.

"Well, yeah," Darryl allowed, laughing nervously. "But I did—I did hit you, though." He shook his head in disbelief. "Three years driving a truck. Three years and I never hit anybody. Til today."

This time, Peter answered first. "Oh, I wouldn't blame yourself too much for that, Darryl. Neal has a gift: he shows up and suddenly you're doing things you never thought you'd do. Ever." He shot a knowing look at Neal, daring him to challenge this observation, but Neal merely sent him a guileless look in return.

"I do keep things interesting," Neal admitted modestly.

"Understatement of the year," Peter agreed, in a world-weary tone. "Maybe of the decade."

Neal smiled, not denying it—and not bothering to even pretend to look contrite, either. "By the way, Darryl," he said smugly, "in case you couldn't tell, _that _was just Peter's way of saying how mind-numbingly boring things were at the FBI before I came along."

Darryl grinned at that, but then his expression faded to something more like apprehension as he looked around. "Hey, speaking of the FBI, can I ask you something?"

Neal looked eager. "Anything. Name it."

"Is Di—is, uh, Agent Berrigan here?"

"Not yet, she's on the way," Peter answered, when Neal looked a question at him. "Why?"

Darryl hesitated for a moment, then spoke in a rush. "Because when I talked to her on the phone, she told me if I came in here, she'd arrest me,"

"Wow," Neal said, wide-eyed with worry. "Really?"

"She, uh, she wouldn't really do that, would she?" Darryl asked. He looked equally worried.

Neal and Peter exchanged a glance. "Y'know, she might," Neal said. "But Peter won't let her. Right, Peter?"

"I'll take care of it," Peter assured them both.

"Great," Neal said, turning to Darryl. "Now, back to Lena and—what's her son's name?"

"Max."

"Yeah, _Max_. Right. I forgot," Neal said, grimacing. At Peter's questioning look, he explained, "Lena is Darryl's girlfriend. She and Darryl and her son Max are gonna come over for a thank-you dinner at June's, as soon as we can arrange it. Hey, you and El should come too, Peter!"

"Sounds nice," Peter answered. "We could bring dessert. And wine."

Neal looked dubious. "Uh . . . maybe just dessert," he said. In an aside, he murmured to Darryl, in a low voice, "You c'n trust Peter with a lot, but not picking out wine."

"I heard that," Peter told him.

"Didja notice how he didn't argue with me, though?" Neal asked Darryl pointedly. To Peter he said, "You can bring it, but only if you let El pick it. Her, I trust. El—Elizabeth, that's Peter's wife," he added, looking at Darryl.

"Yeah, I kinda figured," Darryl said, exchanging an amused glance with Peter.

Neal didn't notice; he was too focused on his dinner plans. "Now, Darryl," he asked briskly, "what do you all like?"

Darryl gave a diffident shrug. "Oh, I don't know. Anything would be fine. Max loves spaghetti, I do know that."

"Italian it is, then!" Neal said, excited. "You're gonna love my red sauce, lemme tell you. And Peter and El love Italian, too. Hey, that reminds me, you'll like this story. When they first met, Peter was too nervous to ask her out and she had to—"

"I'm sure Darryl has better things to do than hear stories about how I met my wife," Peter interrupted, giving Neal a warning look. To think, a few minutes ago he couldn't get Neal to talk; now, his CI wouldn't shut up. _Of course, Neal always did enjoy having an audience . . . . _

Darryl just chuckled. "Honestly, I'd be more interested in hearing how you and _Neal_ met."

"Now _that_," Peter remarked, "is a much more interesting story. I noticed how you said you'd heard a lot about me. So what did Neal tell you?"

"Well, let's see," Darryl paused for a minute, remembering. "He said he worked for you. That you . . . you owned him for four years. That he had to do whatever you wanted. That he'd escaped and you'd caught him. That he couldn't get away, because you'd always find him and lock him up . . . ."

"Ah," Peter said. His voice was thoughtful. "And given Neal's condition, I can guess what you thought."

Darryl nodded, looking uncomfortable. "Yeah. None of it was good."

"And did Neal tell you_ why_ we have this particular arrangement? Mention _where_ exactly he'd escaped from? Or why I had to spend my _valuable _time chasing him?" Peter asked, glancing sideways at Neal, who'd closed his eyes again, although Peter was willing to bet that was a ploy.

"No," Darryl said, adding hastily, "but he was really . . . out of it."

"Thank you, Darryl, for pointing that out," Neal interjected, opening his eyes to shoot a wounded look at Peter. "It's a long story, and the details aren't important, but the short version is that I . . . I've made a few . . . missteps in my life—"

"Missteps," Peter echoed. "That's a new one."

"—and Peter is helping me to . . . course-correct," Neal finished airily.

Peter's expression was thoughtful. "Course-correct huh?"

"You like that one?" Neal asked, looking rather pleased with himself.

"Not bad," Peter said—and was surprised to realize that he actually meant it. As a (very) brief summation of things, Neal's description really wasn't half bad.

Neal smiled. "Thought you might appreciate it. But enough about that, though," he said, growing serious again. "Peter, how long was I out? You have to tell me what happened."

Peter eyed him uneasily. He didn't relish the idea of filling in the gaps in Neal's memory—especially where Regal's brutality was concerned—and he didn't want to spill personal details in front of a relative stranger like Darryl. Peter was trying to come up with a way to deflect the question when Neal spoke again.

"How long was I out—y'know, there at the end?"

"At the end? I told you, Neal, only for a few seconds."

"But I missed so much. Like, I totally missed the part where that bastard stole your shoes." Neal looked down at Peter's stockinged feet. "And why? No 'fense, but they're not really that nice. Mine 'r nicer and he didn't—"

"He didn't take my shoes," Peter explained patiently. "_I_ took them off so I wouldn't make any noise when I was sneaking up on the two of you."

"Ah," Neal said, sounding almost awed. "Hey, that's real good thinking, Peter." To Darryl, he said, confidentially, "Toldja you he was smart."

Peter shook his head—and tried not to smile too widely.

* * *

Peter was on a borrowed NYPD phone, yammering to Diana, who was apparently close, but stuck in traffic due to some sort of accident. It seemed that the NYPD had gone to the wrong warehouse first, which explained why _they _hadn't gotten here sooner and which could have been a life-altering disaster, but fortunately hadn't been. Neal was pretty sure someone would soon be catching holy hell from Peter on that score, but since that person wasn't going to be him, he didn't really care. Darryl had given a preliminary statement to the NYPD, been profusely thanked again by both Neal and Peter, given Neal his cell number to set up the dinner, and then left to finish his last delivery. Really, it was all over but the shouting.

The shouting that Diana would inevitably do once she got here.

Neal assumed Peter must have filled her in on the broad strokes of what had happened. He wasn't paying any attention to the meat of the conversation, though; he was too exhausted to really focus. Instead, through half-closed eyes, he was observing Peter.

The agent was doing the typical Peter-like things: pacing, firing questions, giving orders, sounding authoritative, but he looked ragged. Obviously, he was refusing to acknowledge the little problem of a sliced-up arm that was still dripping blood. One of the NYPD beat cops had given Peter a towel which he'd haphazardly wrapped around his forearm, but bright red stains were starting to soak through the cloth in places. Every now and then Peter gingerly touched his head, near his eye, where Regal had hit him, wiping away blood trickling from the cut on his cheek. The area was already starting to swell; he was going to have one hell of a bruise, Neal could tell.

He and Peter were going to have matching head _and _arm injuries, Neal realized with a sigh.

"Peter," he said, trying to get the agent's attention. Peter, listening to Diana, didn't acknowledge him. "Hey. _Peter!_" he called, louder now.

Peter looked over, then. Neal pointed at Peter, then at the floor, mouthing as he did so, _You. Sit down._

Peter just shook his head, ignoring him. Neal sighed. _It wouldn't be the first time . . . . _

In many ways, Neal had made considerable progress with Peter, but he'd not gotten Peter to the point where he would actually take _orders_ from Neal.

Not yet.

Well, it was something to work on. Like a . . . hobby. Everyone needed a project—Neal maybe more than most people (he had to admit).

He watched Peter wiping sweat away with his good hand, and blinking repeatedly. Every movement was alarmingly lethargic. A moment later, Peter swayed and leaned back against the shelves. At least he'd hung the phone up.

"Diana and the team will be here soon," he said. Neal didn't like how Peter was breathing. The sound was loud and raspy, like he was having to try way too hard.

"Great," Neal said, though in truth he couldn't care less about Diana; what Peter needed was an ambulance. He was pretty sure the EMTs were outside, just waiting for the NYPD to clear the warehouse. "Here's an idea: let's try to have you still be conscious when they get here. You could start by sitting down."

"I'll be fine," Peter insisted. _God, but he was stubborn. _

Neal frowned. "Peter, don't take this the wrong way, but you look like you're about to keel over."

"Says the man who's already keeled over how many times today?"

"Which just makes me the voice of experience," Neal told him. "Fine, you want me to beg?"

That made Peter turn, very quickly, and give him a weirdly intense, almost haunted look, which Neal didn't understand at all, since he'd only been kidding. He continued anyway, in his most earnest voice, "Peter, please, for the love of all that is holy, sit down before you fall down."

"Aw, I'm touched," Peter said, face clearing after an overly long pause that made Neal highly suspicious (but he was too tired to follow up on it just now). "Didn't know you cared that much."

"Oh, I don't," Neal retorted. "I'm just worried because when you do fall down, if it happens to be on top of me, that's gonna hurt like hell. Hurt _me_ like hell," he clarified quickly.

He tried, really hard, to keep a straight face as Peter stared at him.

"I'll be sure to keep my distance," Peter deadpanned.

They glared at each other for a moment, and of course it was Peter who broke first, who finally had to smile at the ridiculousness of it all. Then Neal grinned back.

"I really did mean the first part, Peter. Spoken as someone who actually holds a doctorate."

"Ah. Not a _medical _doctor, though," Peter shot back.

Neal looked as if he were deciding how to answer, then finally admitted, "Well, no."

Peter's only response was an extremely satisfied smirk.

"But I don't have to be a doctor to know that you really don't look so hot," Neal persisted.

"Compared to how hot I normally look?"

Neal looked faintly irritated. "I'm serious, Peter. And I'm not the only one who thinks so."

Peter followed his eyes to the NYPD officer standing unobtrusively at the end of the aisle—another cop stood at the opposite end.

"Those two?" Peter scoffed. "They're here because this is still an active crime scene—"

"With an FBI agent who's on the verge of _actively_ collapsing," Neal put in.

"—and they need to help me make sure _you_ don't wander off and find yourself at the mercy of yet another gun-wielding psychotic," Peter said bluntly.

"Oh, don't worry. I'm not going anywhere. And quit changing the subject. We're talking about you."

"If I was that bad off, I'd know it," Peter told him.

"Maybe, but would you _admit_ it, that's the question," Neal said doubtfully. "Look, you don't have to keep up the image of the big, bad FBI man in front of me. I already know you're the toughest FBI agent in all of New York."

"Just in New York?"

"Well, those are the only ones I have personal knowledge of," Neal said, muttering something unintelligible under his breath that sounded like "_thank God_." "I could say you were the toughest on the whole East Coast, but that might be stretching the truth. And I do try to remain scrupulously honest in all of our conversations."

"Oh, I think you may have already violated that," Peter said.

Confusion blanketed Neal's face. Then Peter gave him a meaningful look and a raised eyebrow.

It took a moment for comprehension to dawn. Finally, Neal said, "Ah. Oh. _Diana._"

"Diana." Peter agreed.

"Yeah, she's . . . she's . . ." Neal's voice faded away.

"Tough," Peter finished the thought for him.

"She makes nails look weak," Neal said, a wary look—not quite fear, but close—coming over his face. "I won't lie to you, Peter—"

"Because you never lie to me."

"Of course not," Neal agreed. "But Diana _is _kind of . . . intimidating."

"She is."

"I mean, so are you," Neal added hastily. "You _can_ be, anyway, but she does it in a whole different way, because she's—"

"She's capable of kicking anyone's ass, and she makes you think she just might do it at any moment if you piss her off enough?" Peter suggested.

"Exactly!" Neal's eyes lit up.

"She's really perfected that over the years," Peter said reminiscently. "I remember when she started with the Bureau, how quiet she was, and then, pretty quickly, that side of her just . . . came out. I think it was there all along."

"Her _Xena: Warrior Princess_ side," Neal suggested.

It was an evocative image, Peter had to admit. One that made him smile.

And it helped explain their bizarre reaction when Diana arrived seconds later. Her raised voice was audible before they could actually see her. Then she rounded the corner and came into view, a contingent of FBI agents in tow and one of the NYPD officers talking to her as they walked. She wasn't looking at him, though. Her face was grim as she glanced around, examining the surroundings as she looked for Peter and Neal.

Then her searching eyes caught sight of her colleagues. An initial expression of relief quickly changed to concern and then anger as she stared, doing a quick assessment of their condition and blanching at what she saw. Diana turned to the NYPD officer with a withering glare. He was still talking when she interrupted him. Loudly.

Peter and Neal exchanged a silent, uneasy glance. The cop didn't know what he was in for.

"_Jesus Christ!_ What the hell is this?" Diana exploded, waving an arm in Peter and Neal's general direction. "I'm all for interagency cooperation," she said, voice blistering, "and I appreciate your assistance, but if we don't get EMS in here soon, there is going to be some _serious_ ass-kicking taking place."

It was the mention of _ass-kicking_ that sent them over the edge. Neal started laughing first, and Peter joined in a beat later. Neal was gasping with pain through paroxysms of laughter.

As she arrived in front of them, Diana's fury was a palpable thing—kind of like putting your hand above a pot of boiling water. _As if you could get burned just by being in the vicinity_, Peter thought as he tried very hard to stop laughing and look appropriately sober.

"What's so funny?" she demanded, looking from Peter to Neal and back again. Her anger was now tempered by worry. She turned to the NYPD officer, who was talking furtively on his radio (probably promising his first-born if someone would just get EMS in here _right now_) and looked equally alarmed at being asked for his opinion. "Are they both concussed?"

"No," Peter managed, through laughter that was finally fading. "No—well, Neal probably is—but it's just—"

"We're so glad you're here to . . . take care of things," Neal added, before collapsing into undignified chortling, even as he grimaced in pain.

Diana pursed her lips, eyes still darting back and forth between the two of them as if the reason for their inexplicable behavior would eventually reveal itself. She was smart enough to know she was missing something—and to know that now was not the time to ferret out what it was. Instead, she moved into command mode.

"Yeah, I can tell you're both overjoyed to see me. Peter, you look like absolute shit," she barked. "Sit down before you fall down—"

"Told ya," Neal interrupted smugly. Peter glared at him.

"And, Neal," she continued, "I don't even know how to describe what _you_ look like, except that absolute shit would look great by comparison."

Neal looked like he was going to say something sarcastic, then remembered who he was talking to and thought better of it. _Smart man_, Peter thought.

"We're clear in here. EMTs are right outside," the police officer at Diana's side reported, looking ridiculously relieved to be able to share that small piece of information.

"Great," Diana said, taking a deep breath. Peter could tell she was really trying to dial it down with the cop; the effort was visible. "How 'bout you . . . why don't you go and bring them here?"

Never in his life had Peter seen anyone so happy to be summarily dismissed.

"Now," Diana said, folding her arms and surveying them with a sharp gaze. "Are you two really all right? Wait, of course you're not. And Peter, _why are you still standing up_?"

"Because he just doesn't listen," Neal said, shaking his head sadly. "It's so difficult to work with someone like that."

"Hey, that's my line," Peter snorted, at the same time that Diana snapped, "Well, you'd know all about not listening, wouldn't you, Caffrey?"

She turned toward him. "Because I distinctly remember telling you to stay outside where you'd be safe until the backup arrived."

"Oh, is _that_ what you said?" Neal asked, an expression of pure innocence on his face. "It's just . . . I got hit pretty hard and I—I've had trouble remembering. Or . . . I may have dropped the phone by that point." He put every ounce of pathetic helplessness into his voice that he could conjure up and threw a quick sideways glance at Peter, trying to assess whether the agent was going to rat him out. Neal thought Peter might have winked, but he couldn't be sure. A sly little smile played around the corners of his lips, but he said nothing.

"You _know_ that's not going to work with me, Caffrey," Diana said, but her focus had shifted to Peter, who was swaying ever so slightly. She grabbed for him, looking appalled as the towel slipped a bit and she got a better look at his injured arm.

"We're sitting down now, boss," she informed him, and then proceeded to gently but firmly force him to the ground as he groaned.

"I notice you didn't mention this—" she looked pointedly at his bruised, swollen face, at his lacerated arm, at his blood-soaked shirt, "on the phone. What the hell happened?"

Peter didn't answer at first; his eyelids were fluttering.

"Boss?" Diana sounded worried.

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, but didn't open them right away. "Ah, Regal whacked me with the gun. And my arm . . . it's just a scrape."

"Yeah, and the only crime Caffrey ever committed was bond forgery," she shot back.

"Hey," Neal protested, purely on reflex at the mention of his name and unproven crimes being dragged—unfairly, he thought—into a totally unrelated discussion. Diana's answering scowl was instantaneous and frightening, and Peter had opened his eyes so he could join in, too. Put together, the full force of their glaring was enough to cause Neal to close his mouth abruptly. He cleared his throat and smiled weakly, looking away.

Much to Neal's relief, the arrival of EMTs prevented any further interrogation from Diana. One team went to Regal and the others came to Peter and Neal. She stepped out of the way so they could have room to work.

Unfortunately, that meant Peter turned into Peter again, trying to take charge of the situation. _So predictable, _Neal thought. Peter never missed a chance to boss people around, even, apparently, when he was on his ass and half unconscious from blood loss. Once preliminary introductions were over, Peter started in.

"Take him first. He's got a head injury and probably a broken right collarbone. Possibly also broken ribs and a sprained ankle," Peter told the EMTs, his voice peremptory as he pointed at Neal.

"Oh, here we go. Don't bother paging _Dr. Burke_, he's back in the house," Neal muttered under his breath.

"What—am I wrong?" Peter demanded, turning slightly so he could direct an accusing look Neal's way. "You'd probably just tell them you're fine."

"No, I'd tell them they should start with the guy whose arm is about to fall off," Neal retorted, throwing a pointed glance at Peter's bloody appendage.

"My arm is fi—" Peter stopped himself just in time, because Neal was trying to bait him and had nearly succeeded. And of course Neal knew it and was wearing a watered-down version of his usual smart-ass grin. "My arm is not falling off," Peter finished; it sounded lame even to his own ears.

"It's called _hyperbole_, Peter," Neal said gently, like a schoolteacher correcting a forgetful student in English class. Then, addressing the EMTs, he added in the earnest voice he used when he wanted to sound helpful (but really wanted to drive Peter crazy), "He's probably got bruised ribs. Took a blow to the head. And he's pretty close to passing out from blood loss."

"_He's_ already passed out more than once today," Peter told them emphatically.

Neal rolled his eyes but refrained from further comment.

The two EMTs exchanged a quick, amused glance. "I think we can handle both of you," the taller one offered.

Efficiently and carefully, they positioned Neal so he could be placed onto a backboard. Neal grunted and clenched his jaw to keep from crying out, but didn't even protest, which proved to Peter how much he had to be hurting. Then Peter was reminded how much _he _was hurting when the EMT started probing his right arm.

"Sorry, Agent Burke," the younger one—_Maria_, he remembered—said apologetically.

"'S all right," he muttered through gritted teeth. A few more minutes passed as he tried to ignore the pain firing through his arm while they applied a quick pressure bandage. With that done, he watched them strapping a now-quiet Neal down. "Don't try to pull anything at the ER, Caffrey," he called out they prepared to take Neal away. "I'll be right behind you."

Neal didn't answer. Peter realized uneasily that he must have passed out; a conscious Neal would definitely have had an acerbic comeback for that remark. That was worrisome. Head injuries could get surprisingly bad surprisingly quick. He chewed his lip in concern.

The EMT sensed his anxiety. "We've got two buses out there, Agent Burke. You'll be in the next one."

He nodded curtly. "Diana!"

Keying in on the edge in his voice, Diana cut off her conversation with someone from ERT. "What is it, boss?"

"Neal," he said, jerking his head to where the EMTs were about to hustle Neal away. "Someone needs to go with him."

Diana followed his look. She didn't question, or even wait for him to finish, really, before striding to the end of the aisle. "Jones!"

Jones appeared immediately from around the corner. Peter hadn't even realized he was there.

"Hey, Peter, if you wanna give blood, there are easier ways," Jones said by way of greeting. He smiled and Peter managed one in return. But Peter could tell by the way his eyes lingered that he was taken aback by the sheer quantity of blood. Jones looked at Diana expectantly.

"I'll remember that," Peter mumbled.

"We need you to escort Caffrey to the hospital," Diana explained.

"Sure," Jones said. He was about to make the standard joke about Neal having a hard time running away in his current state, then he caught sight of the anxiety on Peter's face and swallowed the words. Instead he gave Peter a reassuring nod. "I'll stick with Neal."

Jones was turning to go when Peter said, "Wait." He was fishing around in his pants pocket and finally produced what turned out to be the key to Neal's tracker. "He hurt his ankle, they're gonna need you to take it off."

"Will do," Jones said, leaning down to take it from him. "You take it easy, Peter. We'll see you there." He jogged away to catch up to the EMTs and Neal.

Peter watched them go. Neal wouldn't be alone; Jones would be with him. Diana was saying something else, but the words were fading in and out, like a badly tuned radio, and then running together in odd ways that Peter couldn't comprehend. Somehow the whole world seemed to drift away, or maybe it was him who was drifting away, it was hard to tell. Whichever it was, he let it happen.

It wasn't as if he could do anything about it, anyway.

_TBC…._

_A/N – Many thanks to everyone who reviewed and who sent along their expressions of sympathy. It really means so much._

_Hope you enjoyed this chapter—always eager to hear what you think!_


	15. Safe Harbours

**Chapter 15 – Safe Harbours**

"_**It was a huge comfort to have a person who'd keep you honest with yourself and who also gave you safe harbour."  
**_― Lauren Dane

* * *

Peter must have passed out, too, because he had only a hazy, fragmented recollection of protesting as he was loaded onto a stretcher—and no memory at all of being in an ambulance. But he must have been, because now he was clearly in a hospital.

Gradually coming to full consciousness, he realized he was lying on something soft, blinking up at too-bright lights and fearing for one heart-stopping second that they'd actually had to _amputate his arm_, because he couldn't feel it. At all. The agony he was expecting, that he'd been forcing to a far-off corner of his mind—because he had to, if he was to do his job and keep Neal safe—just wasn't there. His head didn't hurt much—that was nice. But his arm . . . he should be feeling it, he should be feeling _something, _and panic rose inside him because where his right arm should be, there was only a horrible feeling of . . . _nothing._

Then he looked down and exhaled in relief. His arm was still there, swathed in bandages, in a sling, and, of course, completely numb. Apparently he'd slept through being stitched up, as well, and he was undoubtedly on some pretty high-quality drugs. Not that he minded.

So, right arm: not feeling a thing. Peter could feel his other arm, though. Someone was squeezing his hand softly.

_Elizabeth._

When he turned his head to look at her, her eyes were a little too bright, her smile a little too tremulous, but she was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen as she leaned over to kiss him.

"Hey, hon," he said when she had pulled back. He was embarrassed at the croak he emitted _(frankly, he was embarrassed that he'd passed out at all)_.

"Hey, hon," she said, smile growing wider even as a tear spilled out of one eye. Elizabeth wiped it away impatiently, reaching for a cup of water and helping him get the straw in his mouth so he could drink.

Water had never tasted so good.

"You need to drink." There was the tiniest quaver in her voice. "The doctor said you can get dehydrated with the blood loss."

She removed the cup. He leaned back and then blurted out, "I love you, El."

Peter blamed the drugs. The words were out of his mouth before he'd even consciously thought about saying them. And now he really wished he hadn't. Because he was watching El so closely, he caught the way her hand froze in the air for an instant, the way it shook, almost imperceptibly, as she set the cup down on the tray. She was crying for real, now, and he felt suddenly wretched that he'd put her through this.

He hated when people cried, and it was worse when he caused it—and worst of all when El was the one crying.

"Oh, Peter," she whispered, pushing the tray away so she could sit on the bed next to him. Just as he reached out to her, she grabbed his left hand in both of hers, massaging it, and he luxuriated in the silky, soft heat of her fingers against his. "Was it—was it that bad?"

Of course, she already knew it must have been. Peter wasn't the type to burst out with impromptu _I love you's_.

Peter shook his head quickly, needing to reassure her, feeling like an idiot for making her worry more. "No. No, it was just that—there was a moment when . . . when all I could think about was that I don't say it often enough."

She brought his hand up to her cheek and sort of cuddled it there, and he stroked her face, her hair, before awkwardly pulling her in for an embrace that lasted quite a bit longer than what they would normally do in public.

Afterward, she rested her head against his. He leaned back, closing his eyes and enjoying the feel of her lips as she pressed gentle little kisses on his forehead.

"Oh, sweetie, I _never _mind hearing it—not ever. But I already know that you do. You know that, right?" Elizabeth sounded almost desperate as she murmured into his hair, her breath warm and comforting. He could feel the wetness of her tears against his skin.

"Of course, of course," he soothed her. "Please don't cry, El." He would have kissed her again—anything to stop her from crying—but a doctor came in, effectively bringing them back to reality and ending a moment that Peter feared was dangerously close to becoming emotionally over the top. They broke apart as the doctor smiled at them.

He introduced himself as Dr. Sunil and filled them in via a brisk manner that Peter appreciated, without once lapsing into the med-speak that doctors seemed so prone to. He told Peter that he was a lucky man; the lacerations on his right arm were severe, but with proper care and minimal movement of the arm, they should heal without further surgeries or skin grafts. Peter took a deep breath at that; he hadn't even considered that he might need multiple operations. Sunil had put in the stitches himself—_I lost count at fifty-five_, he told Peter wryly. There would be some scarring, but it should be minimal. He was prescribing painkillers and heavy-duty antibiotics, since infection was the biggest threat to a speedy recovery from these kinds of wounds. Care and cleansing would be critical, and a nurse would be in to go over that with them. Peter's arm should remain in a sling for a little while, because it was best to keep it immobile to facilitate healing.

That made Peter sigh, since it wasn't going to be easy getting work done with just his left arm. El—she knew him so well—caught his eye and fixed him with a stern glare that said, _don't even think about it._

The doctor went on to Peter's other injuries. He had mild wrist lacerations, from the cuffs, which should be kept bandaged for a few days. The blow to the head didn't appear to have caused a concussion, but they should keep an eye out for any disorientation, nausea, memory problems, and other concussion indicators. If any of these symptoms appeared, he should return to the ER immediately. His ribs were bruised and would be painful for a while, but there was little that could be done for them. Wrapping could lead to pneumonia, so Peter should try to minimize movement to minimize the pain. In addition to following the instructions for wound care, he'd need to follow up with his own doctor. Plenty of fluids were also important to compensate for the blood loss. Overall, he needed to take it easy for a couple of days to give his body time to replenish and recover.

Peter listened, nodding and trying not to look impatient by this point. Because despite the doctor imparting lots of information, he'd not yet gotten to the only thing Peter really cared about (other than the fact that his arm would be fine, eventually): namely, when he could get the hell out of here.

Dr. Sunil had saved that for last. Once the IV currently dripping into him was done, Peter could go home. Peter smiled and thanked the doctor, who gave him one last admonition: _don't try to move that arm. _Then Sunil departed, leaving the two of them alone once more.

Elizabeth looked a little stunned—_probably by the number of stitches, _he thought.

"El, are you okay?"

She gave him a look of mild reproof. "Me? I'm not the one who has too many stitches to count."

"I know," he soothed. "But I'm gonna be fine. You heard the doctor."

She nodded, but didn't speak. Peter recognized the signs of Elizabeth being upset and trying to hide it. Eyes dark with worry, she was scrutinizing his face, staring at the area where Regal had pistol-whipped him. It felt bad and he knew it probably looked a hell of a lot worse.

"So, how bad does it look?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood. "Are my good looks ruined?"

Her expression was grim as she shook her head. "So we're joking about this, now? The better question is, how does it feel?"

"Not great," he admitted. "He got me pretty good."

"I can tell," she said somberly.

Peter sighed. "Yeah. But it could have been so much worse, El. I'm just sorry you had to worry. How—how'd you find out?"

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in that purposeful way she had (that he loved). "Well, I'd left messages on your cell and at the office, just hoping to get you to spill some info on your big plans for tonight."

He smiled for a moment, but it quickly faded, as he remembered that nightmare moment when Elizabeth had called and Regal had held up Peter's phone, taunting him.

El saw his expression change, but he wasn't about to tell her why. He wasn't about to tell her how loudly Regal's mocking voice was echoing in his head.

Gloating about how easy it would be to abduct his wife.

_Elizabeth is speed dial one, I presume? _

_I simply use your phone to text her, ask her where she is. At work? Or perhaps at home, in Brooklyn. _

_Of course, Elizabeth thinks the message is from you. I tell her she needs to meet me, it's an emergency, tell no one. When she comes out, my men are waiting._

Peter swallowed hard. Sometime later, when she'd calmed down a bit, he'd have to come up with some sort of text message protocol with Elizabeth, to make sure she never fell prey to anything like what that bastard had suggested.

How he'd do that without completely freaking her out was another question.

As he pondered that problem, Elizabeth was eyeing him warily. He knew she could tell he was distracted, but she didn't ask, just waited for him to smile at her to continue.

"Then, later, on a whim, I called Neal. I figured if anyone would know about your plans, it'd be him."

That made Peter smile for real.

"But I couldn't get him either. So I tried the main line at the office," she continued. "No one knew anything. It just seemed . . . strange. That's when I started to get nervous, without even being sure why—I just was. Diana called me not long after that and told me you were on your way to the ER. She said you'd cut your arm." Elizabeth's expression showed her disdain for that bit of understatement. "When I got here, they were just finishing stitching you up."

He sighed. "I'm sorry you had to worry."

"You're okay—that's all that matters," she said, drawing close so she could kiss him again. He enjoyed the feel of her lips, tasting faintly of cherries, and forgot about everything for a minute.

When she broke off the kiss, leaning away, he came back to himself and realized he hadn't asked her the most important thing. _Stupid._

"El, how's Neal?"

A shadow of worry crossed her face as she shook her head. "I—I don't know for sure. Last I heard, they were running more tests."

He closed his eyes for a second and let his head fall back on the pillow as he exhaled. He thought of Neal as he'd last seen him, pale and unconscious on the gurney as the EMTs transported him to the ambulance. Suddenly he felt spent and old, hating the fact that he was stuck here and couldn't check on Neal like he ought to. Neal was his responsibility, and Peter had never felt it more keenly than right now, when he was utterly incapable of fulfilling that responsibility. Just like earlier, back at the warehouse.

He blinked his eyes open to find his wife watching him anxiously.

_No, not quite like earlier. _

Peter was just opening his mouth to ask for her help when Elizabeth said, "Would you like me to go check on him, hon?"

His smile was instantaneous. She knew him so well—just one of the many things he loved about her.

"Would you mind?"

She rolled her eyes. "Of course not. I'd know more already except I wanted to be here when you woke up."

"He's—Neal was in pretty bad shape," Peter said, as if he were warning her. Then he added quickly, remembering, "Jones was supposed to be with him."

"He was. He _is, _I'm sure," she reassured him. "I'll be right back. You need anything before I leave?"

"I'm good, thanks."

Another quick kiss and she was gone. He looked around the cubicle, noticing nothing of particular interest. A nurse entered to check his vitals and the IV. After that, he let himself drift a little bit, trying to focus on positive things instead of the anxiety he felt about Neal. That bastard Regal was in custody. Neal was being looked after. Jones was with him. El was checking on him.

He gazed down at his arm, enveloped in bandages, and wondered if he'd have any scars when he healed. _Did the doctor say anything about that? _ Peter couldn't recall it. _Probably should have asked him. Wait, yes, he did say there shouldn't be much . . . ._

He wondered about what kind of deal Regal would try to cut with the US Attorney's office, now that they had him dead to rights on charges a hell of a lot more serious than art theft. The use of a firearm would only heighten the maximum sentence, and the DOJ wouldn't be inclined to leniency in a case like this, when an agent had been injured and his life threatened. Regal would probably end up pleading—most defendants did—but Peter almost hoped he wouldn't. He would take a savage pleasure in testifying at _that _trial.

He wondered what else ERT had found in the warehouse, and whether Diana and the crew had had any success tracking down Regal's accomplices yet. _There's something I can do—I can call her, _he thought suddenly, before remembering that his phone lay in pieces back in the warehouse.

He wondered what was taking El so long. _Maybe it's because the news isn't good, _his pessimistic inner voice said.

Waiting and worrying, Peter realized he had no idea how much time had passed since El had left. He should have looked at the clock, but his mind felt dull and he'd forgotten to pay attention. He only knew that it felt like a long time—too long. But the drugs and the tiredness were probably messing with his sense of time . . . .

Finally, exhaustion took over. He felt himself drifting off and at first tried to fight it. But it was a losing battle.

* * *

When Peter slowly came back to awareness, he felt oddly unsettled, like maybe he'd been having strange dreams while he was asleep. But if that was the case, he had no memories of them, nothing he could put his finger on—just a vague sense of unease that he chalked up to his worry over Neal.

Instead of El, Jones was at his bedside, engrossed in his phone. He quickly put it away when he saw Peter eyeing him.

"Peter," he said warmly, "how're you feeling?"

"Not bad," he said hoarsely, sitting up a little and reaching for the small Styrofoam cup on the tray. Jones handed it to him.

"And the arm?" The younger agent poured some more water from the pitcher after Peter emptied the cup. It was lukewarm, but still tasted blissfully good to Peter.

"Feeling no pain at the moment. Won't be able to use it for a bit," he said, pausing only a second before asking, "You were with Neal? How's he doing?"

"I was. Elizabeth's with him now, she said she'd sit with him for a little while," Jones answered. "He's still out, but he's gonna be okay."

Frowning, Peter listened as Jones ticked off Neal's injuries—concussion, broken collarbone, two cracked ribs, bruised sternum, sprained ankle, lacerated wrists. Bad, of course, but Peter knew just how much worse it could have been.

"We took care of things with the Marshals, too," Jones added.

Peter looked at him, alarmed. He'd completely forgotten.

"I called Hughes, and he got on the horn and explained the situation. We've guaranteed Neal's location until the anklet goes back on."

"I appreciate that," Peter said, still troubled that he was so out of it that he hadn't even remembered.

Jones seemed to be reading his mind. "Peter, don't worry about it. It's all handled. You've got enough things on your mind."

Peter shook his head. "You talk to him at all?"

"Not really. He's kind of . . . in and out. He woke up once, but was pretty groggy. They say not to worry, that he'll come around when he's ready. They're admitting him, though."

"What about the techs?" Peter asked.

'Took all the pictures they needed," Jones assured him. "And I don't think Neal even knew they were there."

Peter was relieved to hear that. Every one of Neal's injuries had to be immediately documented for the case against Regal, but that process could be disturbing at best, dehumanizing at worst. And, worst of all, it could trigger the victim to relive—_or, maybe, in Neal's case, to remember?_—the trauma of what had been done to him.

He'd really hoped Neal would be spared that; it sounded as if that was what had happened.

"So," Jones said, bringing him out of his reverie, "what about you? You staying overnight, too?"

"No, I'm out as soon as this IV finishes." Peter gestured to the pole next to the bed. He hesitated and then said, "Thank you for staying with him, Clinton."

"Like you need to thank me," Jones snorted. "Least I could do." He scrutinized Peter for a moment. "Neal really put himself on the line today, didn't he?"

"In every conceivable way," Peter agreed quietly. "He saved both our lives. I have no doubt about that."

"Of course he did," Jones said, admiration plain in his voice. "I wouldn't expect anything else, though—and neither would you."

Peter really loved the fact that the smartest agents in New York worked for him.

* * *

Jones listened, rapt and worried, as Peter told the tale of his and Neal's warehouse encounter. He glossed over the most graphic details of what Regal had done to Neal; Jones didn't ask about that, but he didn't need to, Peter realized. Jones knew exactly what injuries Neal had suffered, and he was smart enough to figure out what had happened on his own. Nor did Peter talk about his own emotions at being helpless and forced to watch: of course, Jones would know how deeply that would have affected Peter.

Jones asked a few questions, but mostly he just let Peter talk.

When it was over, Jones shook his head. "That's a hell of a thing."

Peter nodded and took a long drink of water. His throat was dry from talking. _And from being dehydrated, _a stern voice in his head scolded.

"Hey, Peter, you hungry? I could go grab you something from the cafeteria."

_Damn it. _He'd forgotten all about dinner.

"No," Peter answered, "but that does reminds me of something."

"What's that?"

"El and I had dinner reservations for tonight at Le Bernardin—"

"Damn, Peter," Jones interrupted, looking impressed.

"Yeah, well, we're not gonna make it now." Peter rubbed his forehead and grimaced. "So I need to cancel."

"Sure, I'll take care of it."

"No, no, I can do it, I just need to borrow your phone." Peter hated supervisory agents who treated their team members like personal assistants. He might have only one good arm, but he was perfectly capable of making a phone call.

Jones held up a hand. "You leave it to me."

Peter watched curiously as Jones took out his phone, looked up the number, and dialed. He cleared his throat and gave Peter a meaningful look.

"Yes, this is Special Agent Clinton Jones with the FBI's New York office," he said in a voice that sounded solemn and ridiculously official to Peter's ears. "I'm calling about Special Agent in Charge Peter Burke. It's my understanding that Agent Burke had a dinner reservation with you for this evening."

He was quiet, listening for a moment, then said, "That's right. 7:30, party of two?" Jones threw a questioning glance at Peter, who nodded assent.

'I'm afraid I have some bad news," Jones said grimly. He paused as whoever was on the other end apparently expressed concern. While he waited for this ominous statement to sink in, Jones raised his eyebrows and flashed an incongruously bright smile at Peter.

It took Peter only an instant to realize (uneasily) what that expression reminded him of—namely, Neal in mid-con.

Peter just shook his head.

Jones dropped his voice an octave; Peter hadn't thought he could have upped the seriousness quotient another notch, but somehow Jones had managed it. "Special Agent Burke was seriously injured in the line of duty today while apprehending a perpetrator."

Once more, Jones waited, while Le Bernardin's maître-d absorbed this alarming news—and Special Agent Burke rolled his eyes.

"Fortunately, yes, he will be all right," Jones intoned. He'd caught Peter's eye roll and waved a dismissive hand at his boss. "However, he's been hospitalized while he recovers from his wounds. I'm sure you understand that it will be impossible for him to attend this evening."

Another long delay in which Jones listened. Finally he nodded, eyes gleaming with satisfaction as a broad smile broke over his face. "Yes. I think so. That's very kind of you. I'll let Special Agent Burke know. I'm sure he will be very appreciative." Pause. "Thank you. I will. You, too."

He clicked the phone off and grinned at Peter.

"Wow, Jones, you don't fool around. For a minute there, even I thought I died," Peter told him.

"Gotta get their attention. With a place like that, best to lay it on thick," Jones said, shrugging. "Anyway, it worked. They said they hope you feel better soon. And when you're ready to have dinner there, you call up and ask for Michel. Just give him your name, and he'll get you in, any time."

"It takes months to get a reservation there," Peter pointed out.

"For most people, yes. But not for you. Apparently they'll always have a table—" Jones paused to clear his throat dramatically, "_for an FBI hero._'"

_Oh, brother._

"Very impressive," Peter had to admit, chuckling in spite of himself. "I think you were channeling Neal a little bit there." His tone implied he wasn't sure that was necessarily a good thing.

Jones smiled. "Hey, did I say anything that wasn't true?" _Definitely channeling Neal, _Peter thought. "Caffrey's not the only one around here who can use the gift of gab to get what he wants."

_Yes, I definitely have the smartest agents, _Peter decided.

* * *

Not long after that, El returned and Jones departed. After she'd seated herself at Peter's side, El had assured him, as Jones had, that Neal was going to be fine. He noted her emphasis on the future tense, how careful she was to say that Neal _will be _fine, rather than Neal _is _fine.

"You saw him? How was—how did he look?" Which really was kind of a stupid question to ask; he had been witness to Neal's condition at the warehouse, so he knew how bad it had been then. And Neal wasn't going to look better any time soon.

She hesitated, lips pressed together, and looked away, which told him as much as any words she would say. "Not great, hon. But as bad as his face looks, at least there aren't any broken bones and there's no skull fracture. Jones said the doctors think he's very lucky. He should be the same old Neal once the bruises heal."

Peter nodded, relieved. Under the circumstances, it was probably the best they could hope for. "Was he awake?"

"Not really," she answered. "Which is probably for the best, right now. Well, he talked a little bit, but it was like he was dreaming. He said my name a couple of times, so I guess he knew I was there, but he wasn't really making sense."

He let out a long breath and sank back against the pillows, closing his eyes. El didn't say anything, just took his hand in hers; he listened to the sound of her settling herself in the chair.

"You okay, sweetie?"

He could hear the concern in her voice. "Yeah," he said. "Or, at least, I will be." With an effort, he opened his eyes to look at her and dredged up a smile.

She responded with a smile of her own, but there was something melancholy and guarded about it now. It was different than it had been before.

_Before she'd seen Neal._

"Do you want to talk about . . . about what happened?" she asked.

His eyes were disturbingly dark with an emotion she couldn't identify. "Or, if you don't want to," she said hastily, "that's fine, I—"

"No, it's okay," he said, with a sigh. "It was just a routine search warrant. And then it all went to hell."

Her mouth twisted into a little frown as she watched him, cognizant that he was struggling for words.

"We ran into a bad guy—our thief, as it turned out," he said finally. "Regal got the drop on us. On me," he corrected, because it wasn't fair to make any of this out to be Neal's fault.

"Neal and I got separated, and when I went to look for him, Regal had Neal at gunpoint." Peter paused and took a deep breath, wincing a little at the resulting twinge in his ribs. "He said he'd kill Neal if I didn't give him my weapon."

Saying the words brought everything back—that rush of emotions: fear, anger, desperation. It brought back his having to weigh whether he should shoot Neal.

Elizabeth, always sensitive to what he was feeling, had started rubbing his hand, little circles, her fingers gentle on his skin. It was soothing, just a small thing, but it helped anchor him, somehow, to the here and now and not the horror of being trapped in that warehouse watching Regal toy with Neal, horror that threatened to overwhelm him now as he recalled it. He wanted water, suddenly, but he would have had to let go of her hand to get it, so he decided he could drink later.

"So you gave him your gun?" she prompted, after a pause that had gone on just a little too long. Peter had an odd, almost lost, look on his face, and it scared her.

"I didn't think I had a choice," he answered. His tone was one of weary resignation. "I had no way to get to Regal. Short of . . . short of shooting Neal . . . ." He shook his head.

Shock registered on her face and her hand stilled on his. "Oh, Peter."

"So I surrendered my weapon and ended up handcuffed to a shelf. Then Regal knocked Neal unconscious and . . . ." His hand curled into a fist under hers, and her grip tightened reflexively in response.

He looked away and took another deep breath. Then he told her.

Not everything. It was sort of a . . . sanitized version of _everything_.

He and El had a pretty firm "no lying" policy. It wasn't something they talked about, just one of those unwritten marital rules which had served them well over the years. And it had helped contribute, Peter thought, to the fact that they were much happier—and more secure in each other—than many of the couples they knew.

It was also a mindset that Neal had had a hard time comprehending. Peter could still remember Neal's reaction, after he'd gotten Peter into that mess in the hotel room, when Peter had ended up with a lapful of two pretty French girls (not that he'd been interested in them, of course, but purely from an objective standpoint, they _had _been pretty). Neal had just assumed that Peter was going to lie to Elizabeth about it. Because, presumably, that's what Neal would have done.

Peter had informed him that, no, he wasn't going to lie. And Neal's reply had stuck with Peter. _The truth, Peter! Bold choice, _Neal had said, sounding almost scared—and more than a little stunned. Like the very concept of honesty in such a situation was completely foreign to him.

Probably because it was, Peter had thought with a sigh. Neal hadn't gotten where he was by being a beacon of truthfulness.

But, as clichéd as it might sound, Peter and Elizabeth believed in the power of honesty. They _told_ each other things. Which meant, in this case, that he wouldn't lie to her. But he'd already decided that he _could _. . . withhold certain aspects.

This was, he realized with just a hint of guilty conscience, a very Neal-like approach to the situation.

In broad (but not graphic) strokes, he told her that Regal had hurt Neal. That he knew who Neal was, what skills he possessed, and that Regal had planned to drug and kidnap him. He told her about the photos he'd snapped and sent to his accomplices. He told her how furious he'd been at his own impotence, his inability to protect Neal. The horror in her eyes was heartbreaking, but he had to tell her. He needed to talk about it, and there was no one better than Elizabeth. He could tell her things about his emotions that he couldn't tell Jones and Diana because he was their supervisor. And things he didn't think he could tell Neal because . . . just because.

With El, he could let go, at least a little (though not completely). He didn't have to be—_what had Neal called him? the toughest FBI agent in New York?_ And it was cathartic.

He even told her about Regal having her business card in his pocket. She was alarmed, naturally—but he didn't think he had a choice. He wasn't going to make things up (that was the honesty policy again). And he didn't see how else he could fully explain Regal's knowledge of (and interest in) Neal—without the context of what had happened at the Stanzler gallery event.

Really, the only things he omitted completely were the two things that had scared him the most (so he was pretty sure they'd have the same effect on Elizabeth)—the true extent of Regal's plans for Neal, and his casual threat to take Elizabeth. The latter would frighten her, and he didn't see why she needed to know about it. In fact, he'd already decided that no one ever needed to know about that. It was something that he didn't think even Neal was really aware of (having been mostly unconscious at the time), and Peter intended to keep it that way.

Well, actually he left out three things. He didn't talk about Regal promising to kill him, either, since that would have scared her most of all. It was something that, in the rush of everything else, had been oddly far down the list of his own concerns at the time. Anyway, Elizabeth knew his life had been in danger; it was part of why she'd been crying, after all. He didn't need to be explicit about it.

And when it came to Regal's disturbing plans for Neal, he had a feeling, from the look on Elizabeth's face, that she knew something about that, too, without his having to spell it out. El was pretty damned perceptive, and she had seen Neal, seen his injuries. She would know the significance of not only what Peter had said—but also of the things he _hadn't_ said

In much more extensive detail, he told her about Neal's efforts, managing to wake up, head-butt Regal into unconsciousness, and get help, even with his hands tied behind his back. How he'd been an honest-to-God (albeit stupid) _hero _by returning, with no back-up, determined to free Peter.

"Problem was, he only had one good arm, and I was cuffed way up here, above my head," he told her, raising his left arm to demonstrate.

"So how did he get you loose?" A puzzled look crossed her face. "He _did _get you loose, right?"

Peter nodded. "Well, _we _did. Eventually. But he had to climb the shelves and lay down on the boxes so he could reach the cuffs."

"With one arm?" she asked, frowning.

"It wasn't easy," Peter admitted. "He passed out at one point."

"Oh, no."

"Yeah. And after all that, just as Neal was about to unlock the handcuffs, Regal woke up."

"Oh, my God," she said, eyes round with horror.

Remembering the absolute dread that had enveloped him in that moment, Peter suppressed a shiver. He took a drink of water to give the memory time to fade. Then he looked at Elizabeth again. "Regal had us both caught, and he had a backup weapon. He ordered Neal down; fortunately, Neal had the presence of mind to save us both first."

She stared at him anxiously.

"He left the key for me," Peter explained.

It took her only a second to catch on. "Ah. The handcuff key?"

"Yep,"

Her face cleared. "Smart. And I know how you like _smart_."

"Never more than today," he agreed.

Elizabeth waited expectantly, but when Peter didn't continue, she prompted him. "But . . . how did you get out? How did you hurt your arm? You said Regal had a gun on Neal."

"Well, Neal did his thing, for starters."

He told her how Neal had pretended to change sides, to make Regal think he'd turned against Peter.

"And he believed that?" she asked doubtfully. "But how—how could he ever believe that?" He couldn't help a little smile at how quickly she rejected the idea that Neal would ever be disloyal. That was so like El.

"He kind of believed it," Peter explained. "Neal was in full con mode. Hell, when he gave me a shot in the ribs and told Regal about the key to the anklet, even _I_ almost believed him."

"Why—why would he do that?"

"So Regal would be convinced."

"But—"

"Neal knew he had to get Regal away from me, so I could unlock the cuffs. Which he did by persuading Regal that he was on his side. Then I got out of the cuffs and went for Regal's gun, which had ended up under the shelves. That's how I tore up my arm; it was a pretty tight fit." She shook her head, presumably at his understatement, and he added quickly, "Neal didn't know it was going to be that hard for me to get the gun."

"So . . . Neal did all this to convince Regal," she said slowly. "Meanwhile . . . you were – were _you_ nervous? That Neal had betrayed you?"

He sighed. "Not really, hon. Neal's not—he wouldn't . . ." He looked away and drank some more water before adding, "He's good, though, El, he's really good."

For a moment, El looked as if she wanted to ask him a question, but instead she just smiled at him. "Yes, he is. And so are you, Peter Burke. I love you so much."

"You know I know that right?" he asked, repeating her words from earlier. "Not that I ever mind hearing it—"

"I should hope not," she interrupted. Elizabeth leaned in then, very close, and they were too busy for him to finish the story for a while.

* * *

Finally he'd been discharged, the hospital staff had explained wound care and antibiotics and prescriptions and all the rest. He suffered through the litany with barely disguised impatience because he still hadn't seen Neal, and that was first on his list of priorities right now.

Hours had passed while he'd lain in bed, fatigued and frustrated as the world's slowest IV dripped into him, and still he hadn't seen Neal.

Peter knew that Neal had been admitted. He'd gotten reports on his condition. But he needed to see him before he could have any peace of mind.

Finally the damn IV was finished and they told him he could dress and go.

Peter wouldn't have admitted to anyone just how lousy he felt—well, maybe to Elizabeth, but the pinched expression on her face when he caught her looking at him stopped him from baring his soul. She was worried enough as it was. Being El, she knew, of course, without his saying a word, that he was exhausted and starting to feel the dull ache of pain in his arm, his shoulders, his head - all over, really - and that he needed to be home, resting. But she was also smart enough to know that none of that mattered until Peter had eased his palpable anxiety about his partner's condition.

Just getting dressed was a chore. Someone had brought him a shirt—his had been cut off in the ER, no doubt. The shirt had buttons, fortunately, since anything else would have been impossible to manage. As it was, Elizabeth still had to help him. Being one-armed was going to get very old, very fast; he was going to need to get this sling off pronto. His attempts to fasten the buttons himself were ridiculously clumsy. Helping him get the shirt on, Elizabeth had drawn back in consternation at the sight of the bruising coloring his ribs. He wished she hadn't seen, but there was no way to avoid it—right now, he didn't think he could get dressed without her.

In the bathroom, Peter examined his reflection. A truly hideous bruise was developing where Regal had hit him with the gun. Overall, he looked pale and kind of haggard, but not that bad, all things considered. Peter decided that, for the moment, he looked better than he felt, and that was something.

Bending down and stifling a groan, he splashed some water on his face and drank a little, hoping to feel revived. A belt of Scotch might have helped, but sadly none was available. _Probably not recommended for dehydration, anyway, _he thought. He dried his face with a paper towel and went back out to where Elizabeth was waiting. She carried a little bag with his belongings that had been taken when he'd been brought in through the ER.

"Ready?" she asked brightly.

"Ready doesn't even begin to describe it," he muttered.

"Jones texted me—they just took Neal up to a room," she said, positioning herself on his left side and hooking her arm through his as they walked to the elevator. Once inside, she punched the button for the fifth floor. Peter let himself lean against the back wall of the elevator and tried to project an image of healthy cheerfulness as Elizabeth turned to look at him. He managed a smile, but he was pretty sure she wasn't fooled.

"Did you call Mozzie? And June?"

El nodded. "Mozz is out of town, but I told him not to worry. Of course, he's worried anyway. June said she'd stop by first thing tomorrow morning."

The elevator doors opened. He could feel himself flagging as they started to walk. It was a good thing she was there to guide him down long hallways and around corners until finally they arrived at an open door with a sign on the wall that said _527E._

Inside, Neal lay in the bed, asleep or unconscious.

_TBC…._

* * *

_A/N Thanks again for all the excellent feedback. I take it all to heart – in fact, several aspects of the story have changed in response to comments or suggestions from you wonderful reviewers, whom I've tried to thank personally. So, you see, reviewing is good—and not just for making the author feel warm and fuzzy, but for actually expanding/improving the narrative! Probably the best example, which I should have mentioned in the last chapter, was the Darryl/Neal/Peter scene, which was a last-minute addition for faithful reader KHJ in particular, who asked for such a scene, and for all of you reviewers in general who really seemed to like and want more of Darryl. Sadly, I can't give everyone everything they wish for, but in this case, I was happy to oblige…._

_And those of you out there reviewing as guests, thanks to all of you, too! But you really should sign up for an account so I can reply to your reviews and thank you personally. Plus, then you don't have to check the site every day for updates—you'll know instantly when a new chapter goes up! [end site commercial] ;-)_

_Meanwhile, new episodes have started - with some interesting parallels between this chapter and the most recent episode (yes, this chapter was written first) - and this story is still going. Sigh. I certainly had planned for this to be completed by now, but life intervenes ….the end is coming, however, I promise (although not in the next chapter).  
_


	16. The Simple Act of Waiting

Critical Hour

**Chapter 16 – The Simple Act of Waiting **

"_**...of all the hardships a person had to face, none was more punishing than the simple act of waiting."  
**_― Khaled Hosseini, _A Thousand Splendid Suns _

* * *

Finally Peter's IV was finished, and he'd been discharged. Elizabeth wished, desperately, that she could take him home. Peter was exhausted and shaky—not that he would admit it, of course, but he was; anyone could see it. Or, at least, _she _could. Elizabeth wanted nothing more in the world than to drive him back home to Brooklyn, tuck him in, maybe feed him something, and then watch him sleep for as long as he needed. She herself was probably too wired to sleep any time in the near future.

Because she couldn't stop thinking about how close she'd come to losing him today. And very likely would have, she now knew—if not for Neal.

Neal, who had more injuries than she could count, more than she wanted to think about. Neal, who was the reason they weren't going to be leaving the hospital any time soon.

As much as Elizabeth wanted Peter to go home, as much as he _needed _to go home, she didn't even bother suggesting it. She knew Peter wouldn't be satisfied until he'd seen Neal, and talked with him. Seeing Neal in his current state was far from comforting, but it was what Peter needed. The main thing was that Peter had to know—to see for himself—that Neal was okay.

Or, to be more accurate, that he _would _be okay. Because, God knew, Neal wasn't okay now. Not by a long shot.

And now that she'd seen him, the very idea of Neal being alone made Elizabeth uneasy, too. Someone in Neal's condition should be surrounded by family and friends, coaxing and prompting, and maybe holding his hand now and then, to bring him back, to just _be there. _Yet here was Neal, in a city of eight million, and he had no one, really, except Jones and Peter and herself, to be with him when he needed it most. The thought of him lying alone in that hospital bed, bruised and battered, made her heart ache.

So, no matter how much she wished (selfishly) that she could take Peter home, the truth was that, right now, she and Peter were where they needed to be.

Where _Neal_ needed them to be.

* * *

Neal looked very young, Peter thought as he walked into the hospital room and surveyed his partner. Not to mention small. And fragile. All things Neal was not. Well, relatively speaking, he _was _young, but Neal had done far too much in his life for Peter to ever think of him that way.

_Except when Neal was doing something stupid that demonstrated his complete lack of impulse control. Then it was easy to think of him as—forget _young_, try _infantile_._

Peter pushed that thought out of his mind quickly.

Elizabeth watched Peter's face as he studied Neal. She wasn't surprised to see his eyes darken or his face fall into grim lines. But she was struck by the quick intake of breath and the way he froze, just for an instant, as he got closer to the bed where Neal lay, limp and unconscious, the marks of the beating he'd suffered plainly visible.

Most people wouldn't have noticed, but she did.

Elizabeth didn't think it was the nasty gash that started in Neal's hairline and ran along his temple—they'd actually had to shave the hair a bit to properly bandage it—that had caused Peter's reaction. She doubted it was the IV in Neal's hand, or the row of stitches across the upper part of his forehead, or the spectacular black eye Neal sported, or the right arm that was encased in a sling to protect the broken collarbone.

No, she was afraid it was the ugly bruise that spanned Neal's throat. A livid bruise about the size of a man's hand.

Certainly that had shocked _her_.

When Peter had all but begged her to go to Neal, to see him and find out how he was, she had done so quickly and efficiently. Jones had been standing in the hallway when she'd arrived, waiting as the nurses settled Neal back in after a trip for X-rays and a CT scan. Jones had filled her in quietly, and she knew from the tone of his voice that she needed to brace herself. That Neal's life wasn't in danger, thank God, but that it was bad.

Clinton's badge-flashing got her in to see him; they swapped bedside spots so that Jones could update Peter while she stayed with Neal.

Elizabeth had been shaken by her first sight of him. When she walked into the room, she let out an involuntary exclamation, hand automatically going to her mouth to muffle the noise.

He didn't look like Neal, not really. The contrast with his usual perfect, polished appearance was horrifying. She'd never seen Neal look so bad. Hell, up close, excluding TV or movies, she'd never seen _anyone _look that bad. Elizabeth had led a sheltered enough life that she'd never seen anything so appalling in person. Peter, thank God, had never been beaten up that severely—on the job or elsewhere.

Neal's face was battered and pale as he lay motionless on the bed, and though Peter and Jones had warned her, she'd still been unprepared for the magnitude of the cuts and contusions, the stitches, the swelling, the blossoming black eye, and most of all, the darkening bruise wrapped around his neck. That had made her blood run cold at the same time that hot rage flooded through her.

As she came closer, she'd caught sight of the strange marks on his skin, the ends of them just barely visible over the frayed collar of the hospital gown where it had slipped down on Neal's chest. At first, she'd thought they were from the accident—Jones had said something about Neal running out into traffic and being hit; _I have to get the story from Peter, _she'd thought. But as she stared at the scratches, she'd quickly realized they couldn't be from an accident. The marks were too neat, too perfectly aligned, and a horrible sense of dread seeped into her soul as realization began to dawn, as her mind started to put the pieces together.

She'd had to fight back tears, then, as she took Neal's cool, limp hand in her own, biting her lip at the sight of his heavily bandaged wrist, and whispered, over and over again, that he was safe, that he was going to be okay.

Even though he looked anything but _okay._

Watching Peter now as he scrutinized Neal, she knew he had to be feeling some of the same emotions she'd had upon first seeing the shape Neal was in. Being an FBI agent, Peter just hid them better. But not completely, though.

And now, after seeing Neal herself, putting that together with the strained, anguished tone of Peter's voice when he'd talked about Regal and his plan to take Neal, the atypical hesitation which meant he was carefully editing as he went along . . . after all of that, she now knew that things had been much, much worse than Peter had let on.

"Here, Peter, why don't you sit down," she said, leading him over to the chair next to Neal's bed. He sank into it gratefully and she sat down, too, in a chair located on the other side. For a moment, they both sat there quietly, contemplating the patient.

Peter was just opening his mouth to say something when, as if on cue, Elizabeth's phone buzzed. She checked the screen. "I'm so sorry, but I gotta take this—be right back, hon," she said, jumping up and leaving him alone with Neal. He waved a hand as she left.

The steady rise and fall of Neal's chest was the only evidence that he was alive. Seeing him so motionless was utterly disconcerting. Peter had to remind himself that Neal was going to be fine. The doctors had said so. Or so everyone had told him . . . .

"So, Caffrey," Peter said, feeling awkward, "if you were looking for a few days off, there are less painful ways to do it."

Neal didn't respond.

"And just because your anklet's off temporarily, don't think you can take advantage of that," he mock-scolded.

Nothing. Peter sighed. It was eerie; Neal was so rarely still. Or quiet. _A quiet Neal was never a good thing,_ Peter reflected.

"This is just . . . wrong," he muttered, as much to himself as to Neal. For lack of anything else to do, Peter kept staring at him, watching the steady, reassuring rhythm of his breathing. He was just pouring himself a cup of water when El returned.

"Are you talking to him, Peter? You're supposed to do that, you know."

"I've talked to him," he assured her. "It's just . . . ." Frustrated, Peter let the sentence hang there.

". . . . he's so quiet," Elizabeth finished, sighing.

Peter scrubbed at his forehead. "Usually I can't get him to _stop _talking."

She rolled her eyes at him and went over to Neal, taking his lifeless hand in hers.

"You need to wake up before too long, Neal," she coaxed. "Even Peter thinks you're being too quiet, and when has _that _ever happened before? Also, I want to hear all about what a hero you were today. Peter told me, but I can't wait to hear your side of the story. You know he has a tendency to . . . minimize things."

"Hey," Peter pretended to protest, but El just grinned slyly.

When Neal didn't answer, her smile faded. She released his hand and sat down opposite Peter. They chatted in low voices, the conversation mostly consisting of El filling Peter in on her day. As he listened, Peter found himself quietly reveling in the sheer normalcy of it. Somehow, hearing about the ordinary routine of her day helped make the nightmarish aspects of his own recede a bit. While he'd been handcuffed by a maniac, trying to save his and Neal's lives, Elizabeth had been preparing a bid for a fundraiser that would be quite a coup if she got it.

El stopped abruptly in the middle of describing a recalcitrant caterer when Neal began to twitch restlessly. A moment later he mumbled something. Peter caught what sounded like _El _and _you _and _need to know._

Elizabeth threw a helpless glance at Peter. "He was saying that before. Remember I said he wasn't making sense? He keeps talking about yuzu. And saying I need to know about it? I don't get it."

Peter frowned. "He was talking about me?" What else was he saying?"

"Not _you_. At least, I don't think so. It sounded like . . . _yuzu_?"

Peter felt his breath catch in his throat.

Observant as ever, El noticed. "What?" she queried.

When he didn't answer right away, she raised an eyebrow at him. "Peter? What is it—is something wrong?"

He wasn't looking at her, though; he was staring at Neal—with a blank expression on his face at first that quickly transformed into a small, knowing smile. Like he was recalling a private joke.

"No," Peter said finally, eyes filled with warmth—and some other emotion she couldn't be sure of—as he looked at her. "It, uh, has to do with the surprise I had planned for tonight."

Elizabeth pursed her lips. "Ah, yes. And that was?"

"A very special dinner for two." He paused briefly, purely for drama's sake, and added, "At Le Bernardin."

El was just as surprised—and excited—as he'd hoped she would be; everything in her face, her eyes showed it. "Le Bernardin! Peter, that's amazing. How sweet of you!" Then her face fell. "Too bad we can't go."

"We'll reschedule," he assured her. "And we have an in." In response to her puzzled look, he explained, "Jones called them to cancel and made it sound like I was at death's door. They fell all over themselves to make sure we can get a table there any night we want."

"That's great!" she exclaimed, then hastily amended, "I mean, not that you were hurt, of course, but—"

"Oh, sure," Peter grumbled, but he was smiling. "Being able to get a table at Le Bernardin makes all of this worthwhile." He gestured to his injured arm.

"Don't even joke about that!" Now she looked worried again.

"Oh, hon, it beats the alternative." She frowned a little and rolled her eyes, but didn't argue with him.

A moment later, her expression turned contemplative. "The only thing I don't understand," El said slowly, "is what the heck that has to do with yuzu."

The answer to _that_ was echoing in Peter's head.

"_Researching the dishes at Le Bernardin, Peter? Studying up on yuzu? That's really going the extra mile. Wait 'til Elizabeth finds out." _That was Neal's voice.

"_She doesn't need to know that part."_

"_Oh, I beg to differ," Neal had said. "She absolutely needs to know that part. Because, come on—that's the __**best**__ part."_

Peter had gotten momentarily lost in thought; more time must have passed than he realized. When he focused on Elizabeth again, she was watching him intently, a curious look on her face. "Peter?"

Part of him was heartened that, on some level, Neal must be remembering their conversation about the restaurant; Neal's spotty recall of the day's events had been a source of quiet worry for Peter.

Of course, another part of him couldn't help wryly noting that only Neal could somehow manage to put Peter on the spot_ even while he was semi-conscious. _

Peter cleared his throat. He really hadn't meant to tell Elizabeth; it was bad enough that _Neal_ knew he'd gone a little bit . . . overboard.

"Yeah, that. Well. You know Neal, he was acting all superior when I told him where I was taking you. He started trying to explain menu items to me, like what yuzu was, and I told him that I already knew."

Her lips curved into a smile. "You knew what—what yuzu was?" Peter knew that voice; it was El trying very hard not to sound surprised (and not quite succeeding).

"Yep," he said simply.

El watched him, her gaze steady, as she waited for the other shoe to drop.

"I looked it up," Peter admitted, hoping that would be the end of it. Her confused expression said otherwise.

"I—I don't get it, sweetie."

"I was just being . . . thorough," Peter said, hearing the sheepish note in his own voice. "So I went on the Internet and checked out the menu and . . ."

"Ah. And you . . . you looked up anything you didn't recognize?" she said, comprehension dawning.

"Just trying to be . . . prepared."

"Oh, of course," she said solemnly.

"Well, yeah. No big deal. But Neal said you needed to know. He said it was charming," Peter muttered. "Making a big fuss out of it. Which is completely ridiculous, I mean—"

"Neal is a very, very smart man," Elizabeth interrupted, and then all of a sudden, she was up, walking over to his side of the bed and bending down to kiss him, hard, and he hadn't expected that, though of course it felt wonderful and . . . .

"That is just the sweetest thing," she told him as she pulled back and starting laughing, gently, at the bewildered look on his face. "It _is _a big deal. To me. Honey, it's just so . . . _you_. And have I mentioned recently how much I love you?"

She had, actually - but as he'd already pointed out, he never minded hearing it . . . .

* * *

Neal had quieted, and Peter was dozing off, when suddenly Neal let out a low, strangled sound that jolted Peter into wakefulness. The movement jarred his arm and he grunted; the pain meds must be wearing off. He opened his eyes to find that he was alone with Neal. El must have stepped out.

"Neal?" he said tentatively.

Neal wasn't awake, or at least his eyes weren't open. But his breathing had quickened and there was a tension in his muscles that hadn't been there before.

"Hey. Neal, can you hear me?"

Under the covers, Neal moved restlessly, his head tossing slightly from side to side.

"Take it easy," Peter said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. "Just relax, you're okay."

It wasn't until Neal let out a choked gasp, hand flying up to grab at his throat, that Peter caught on. Neal must be dreaming about that moment when Regal had encircled Neal's neck and squeezed, cutting off his air. And then Peter was reliving it, too, that fear, that horror, that rage—not only at Regal, but at himself, for his utter powerlessness.

"_No_." The word ended in a groan as Neal drew in a long, shuddering breath. His body stiffened and he arched off the bed before falling back to lie down, but he kept moving convulsively, back and forth, as if he were trying to escape. Neal took his hand away from his throat and reached out blindly.

At the warehouse, Peter had been helpless, forced to watch as his partner suffered. But at least now he could do something. He repeated, louder this time, "Neal, it's okay, you're safe. You're okay now." But it wasn't until he awkwardly grabbed Neal's flailing arm that the younger man responded.

"Neal, you're fine, just breathe, okay? Deep breaths," Peter said, maintaining a light but firm grip on Neal's arm and gently pushing it down to lie on the blanket. Neal didn't resist. When he'd stopped moving, Peter slid his hand down so it rested on top of Neal's.

The combination of touch and voice seemed to register. Neal's hand was loose underneath Peter's, and his body relaxed. Slowly his breathing evened out as Peter kept murmuring, over and over, that he'd be fine, that he was safe, that it was okay.

Elizabeth must have come back at some point; Peter hadn't even realized she'd returned. Now she stood at the foot of the bed, looking worried.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

Peter glanced over at her, startled. He saw her gaze flick down to where his hand was resting on Neal's. "Hey," he answered, his voice rough. "Yeah. He just got a little . . . agitated."

Elizabeth was careful not to say that Peter seemed rather agitated himself. She watched quietly, emotion welling up inside her, as Peter patted Neal's hand once, awkwardly, and then let go to reach for the cup of water.

* * *

As time passed, Elizabeth checked her phone while covertly checking on Peter. He was watching Neal intently, but now with an anxious expression on his face. Like he was waiting for something bad to happen. She'd tried to make some small talk, but Peter had seemed distracted, and she'd finally given up and just let the silence take over for a while.

She was starting to worry that Neal wasn't going to wake up anytime soon and then what? It wouldn't be good for Peter to spend the night sitting in a chair at Neal's bedside, but—

"He was . . . _such_ a sadist, he . . . .."

She glanced up sharply. Peter's voice was so low that she had to strain to make out the words, even though the room was quiet. He wasn't looking at her. His eyes were still fixed on Neal.

"He hurt him, and he enjoyed it, and there—there was nothing I could do."

And, of course, she knew, nothing would be worse for Peter than that. Than seeing Neal suffer and being unable to do anything to stop it.

Peter looked at her then, seeing the alarm on her face. He didn't know why he'd said that—he really hadn't meant to. But sitting here, staring at Neal, at the cuts and bruises, all he could think about was watching Regal inflict them, reliving the ways he'd touched Neal and hurt Neal, and Peter had ended up thinking out loud, without intending to . . . .

"God, honey, I'm so sorry." Elizabeth's dismay was audible. "I can't even imagine, you must have been so worried—"

_did you hear that, Neal? he's __so worried __about you. it's quite touching, really._

Peter closed his eyes briefly as Regal's voice echoed in his head. Mocking Peter's fear that Regal was going to choke Neal to death.

"Peter?"

Quickly he blinked his eyes open to look at Elizabeth. _Get a grip_, he told himself sternly. _You're scaring her._

Pasting on a smile, he shook his head in frustration. "Yeah, I was, but it's - it's okay now. Just . . . it's been a long day."

El didn't look completely satisfied, but she did smile back. Then she got up and brought her chair over to Peter's side of the bed so she could sit next to him. She took his hand in hers. Her touch was light, but firm, and she didn't let go.

And, Peter realized gratefully, it helped. It helped a lot.

* * *

Over the next hour, Neal slept fitfully and finally began to wake up—but fleetingly, never quite to full awareness. He knew who he was and who Peter and Elizabeth were, but he seemed confused about everything else. In a faint voice, he'd ask w_here am I? _and _what happened? _and _are you okay? _ Peter would answer in as soothing a voice as he could manage, because Neal seemed upset. Then Neal would drift off, wake up a few minutes later, and ask the same questions all over again. The nurses assured them this wasn't uncommon, given the combination of the drugs and a concussion such as Neal had suffered (even as they emphasized that it was _mild._)

A little later, Peter borrowed El's phone and stepped out into the hallway, pacing outside the door to Neal's room as he checked in with Diana for an update on the case. She was just explaining that Regal had been patched up and admitted to the hospital (with head injuries of his own, naturally—which Peter was grimly glad to have inflicted) when Peter heard a high-pitched voice saying his name. It had to be Neal, Peter realized, but the voice was almost unrecognizable; he'd never heard that note of panic in Neal's voice before.

"Diana, I gotta go," he said abruptly, cutting her off in mid-sentence and turning back down the hallway toward Neal's room. "Thanks for the update; I'll call you back."

"Sure, boss," she said. He wondered if maybe she'd heard Neal's voice through the receiver. "Listen, tell Neal I said hi. I'm gonna try to get down there later."

"Will do," Peter said, clicking the phone off and quickening his pace. He could hear Elizabeth's voice now, too.

"—is he?" He heard Neal say, in that strange, _not-Neal_ voice. "Is he okay?"

"I'm telling you, Neal, Peter's fine," Elizabeth said, in her most soothing, comforting tone, the one that could instantly calm any frightened niece or nephew. "Just fine."

Peter, in the doorway now, saw that she held Neal's free hand in both of hers and was giving him her brightest smile. Neal's eyes were open, but he wasn't looking at her; his gaze was darting around the room, a little wildly. "He'll be right back, he's just talking to Diana."

"But he was . . . he's okay? You're sure?" Neal sounded so scared, like he was positive she was lying to him.

"He's _fine_," Peter said, striding into the room and catching Neal's eye. Neal froze and sighed in relief.

"Would El lie to you?" he continued as he walked over to the bed.

Neal still looked more relieved than happy to see him. A long pause ensued before he could reply as he stared, blinking a few times, up at Peter. "Uh, she might," he said, finally recovering a little. "She's . . . pretty good liar."

"_Shh_!" Elizabeth said in a scandalized stage whisper. Neal's eyes were fluttering.

"And how would _you _know?" Peter asked, mock-stern.

But Neal had already faded again. He was out before he could answer.

* * *

Elizabeth had gone for coffee while Peter remained at Neal's bedside, slumped down in the chair. Trying valiantly to stay awake, he was a little alarmed at the overwhelming tiredness he felt. He knew Elizabeth was worried about him, but he didn't want to leave quite yet. It was still early. And he was still hoping to talk with Neal—have an actual conversation—before they left the hospital.

Time passed and maybe he'd nodded off briefly, only to be woken by the sound of someone entering the room behind him. Peter didn't bother to turn to look. It must be Elizabeth, back from her coffee run. _Just what I need to wake up . . . ._

"Hey, hon."

"Not quite," a deeper, amused voice said.

It wasn't his wife. It was his boss.

"Sorry, sir," he said hastily.

Peter hadn't expected to see him. He'd talked to Diana, who'd talked to Hughes. She'd assured Peter that he didn't need to call his boss. But she'd never mentioned anything about his coming down to the hospital.

And yet, Peter knew he shouldn't have been surprised.

"Peter, don't get up," Hughes said quickly, sounding irritated, as Peter started to rise. He sat back down, but straightened up.

"Heard about your adventure today," Hughes said. He eased himself down into a chair. Peter watched his frown deepen as he appraised Neal's visible injuries. "And that both of you are a little worse for the wear."

Peter shook his head. "I'm okay—just had to get my arm stitched up. Neal had it worse."

"How bad?"

Hughes listened as Peter catalogued Neal's injuries and then sketched out what had happened at the warehouse—briefly, because he knew the kind of report Hughes preferred, and because Diana had probably covered much of it, anyway.

"Sounds like you both played hero," Hughes remarked when Peter had finished.

"Did what we had to do. But Neal went above and beyond."

Looking down at Neal, Hughes nodded. His expression had softened into something that Peter could almost classify as _fond_. Which was kind of jarring because he'd hardly ever seen that look on Hughes' face before—and _never _when looking at Neal.

"There's more to him than meets the eye," Hughes said, after a long pause. Coming from him, it sounded not so much like an observation as an admission.

Peter watched him scrutinize Neal and then spoke. "Neal knows how to handle himself in pressure situations. He's smart, and you can count on him. I'm sure Diana told you that he risked his life more than once today."

Hughes nodded. "She did."

"And when it comes to the big picture," Peter added, "Neal's also smart enough to realize that it's to his advantage to work with us."

"Agreed, although I think it's more about _you _than _us,_" Hughes replied, his tone dry. He shifted his gaze to his agent. "And that's something you can use to _your _advantage. It's a rare thing, but in his own way, he's . . . he's very devoted to you, Peter."

Peter nodded, but said nothing. Hughes was right, but Peter had known that for a long time. And it made Peter uncomfortable to talk, even obliquely, about how Neal's emotions could be used to manipulate him, when Neal lay, battered and unconscious because he'd cared enough about Peter to risk everything without hesitation.

They talked for a few minutes, quietly, about Regal, about the case, about the search of the warehouse, which wasn't complete, but was turning up some unexpected treasure. Hughes reiterated what Diana had told him: that one of Regal's associates had been apprehended, and the team was running down leads on others.

"Since you talked to Diana," Hughes said, "we've issued an APB for the man Regal called. We're on his trail."

"We need to find him," Peter said, thinking out loud and then regretting it. His boss normally had little patience for statements of the obvious.

But Hughes didn't seem to notice. "Oh, we'll get him. We'll get all of them." The confidence in his voice was reassuring. "We've got more manpower than we can use. Half of White Collar is on this, and the half that isn't, wants to be. Not to mention I've received personal offers of assistance from pretty much every other division in New York. There are a lot of FBI agents back at the office who are _very_ pissed off on your behalf."

Peter smiled faintly at that. "Word travels fast, huh?"

"You know it. By the way," Hughes added, "the one we caught was a museum employee—Regal had gotten him on there part-time in a maintenance job."

"Makes sense." Distracted, Peter glanced over at Neal, who'd started to shift under the covers again. He'd been moving—and mumbling—a bit more in the past few minutes. Peter hoped that meant he was starting to wake up.

"And he was carrying quite the portable pharmacy," Hughes added.

At that, Peter looked up sharply. He'd been preoccupied seconds before, but now Hughes had his undivided attention. "Tell me."

"Multiple vials of ketamine. Hypodermic needles. Also, a couple of different types of sedatives and some other substances that weren't readily identifiable. It's been sent for testing."

_I want our delectable new associate heavily dosed so he doesn't wake up during the trip._

Peter swallowed, finding his mouth suddenly dry. "Regal said—that's . . . they were going to use that on Neal."

Hughes' expression was grim as he nodded. "So Diana said."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke as they looked at Neal, who muttered something indistinct and turned his head to the side.

"Neal?" Peter asked, leaning forward. "Hey, can you hear me?" He watched hopefully, but Neal didn't answer.

"We'll need you to give a more detailed statement, Peter," Hughes remarked after a pause.

Peter nodded. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's fine. We can send someone to your house."

"No," Peter said firmly. "I can come in to the office."

Hughes shot a skeptical look at him. "Sure you're up for it?"

"I'll be fine." Peter was already tired of everyone treating him with kid gloves.

"Tomorrow afternoon, then," Hughes said. "I don't want to see you in the office before that. And you're not working. You're giving your statement and then you're leaving. Take some time, Peter."

"If you say so."

"I do," Hughes replied in a tone that left no room for debate. "You've been through a lot today."

Again, Peter shook his head. "Neal's hurt a lot worse."

"Maybe," Hughes observed, "but from what I've heard, you had to watch it happen."

Peter hadn't expected that. He'd opened his mouth to answer, but closed it abruptly, looking away.

Hughes was watching him closely. "I mean it, Peter. Take some time. You may need it more than you realize." He gave Peter a meaningful look that made the agent distinctly uncomfortable, made him feel as if Hughes knew everything.

"Well. I wanted to look in on you both, and I'm sorry not to be able to speak with Neal, but I've got to go."

"Thanks. For coming down," Peter said, recovering a bit. "You didn't have to."

Hughes stood and took a long look down at Neal. "Yeah, I did."

Then he focused on Peter. "You did a hell of a job today. And when he wakes up, tell Neal that he did, too. Not sure when I'll get to tell him in person."

"Thanks, Reese. I will."

"Peter, you should think about going home."

"I will. Soon," Peter answered, looking over at Neal again. "I just . . . I'm just going to stay a little bit longer."

With a nod, Hughes walked out. Peter watched him leave and debated with himself whether he should take a walk down the hallway to try and wake up a bit. Fatigue won out, though, and he stayed where he was, rummaging through the bag Elizabeth had brought to look for something to read. He was looking forward to her return (and, he had to admit, the coffee she'd promised to bring) when a hoarse whisper broke the quiet.

"Think I . . . need to get hospitalized more often."

_TBC . . . . _

_A/N - As always, thanks to everyone following along and reviewing—you brighten my day!_


	17. Nothing Like They Were Meant to Be

Critical Hour

**Chapter 17**_** – **_**N****othing Like They Were Meant to Be**

* * *

"Think I . . . need to get hospitalized more often."

Peter sat up in the chair and leaned forward eagerly. The voice was rasping and gravelly, but unmistakably Neal's, all the same. Blue eyes blinked up at him, and Peter couldn't help grinning at the sight. Neal's eyes had none of their usual brightness and one of them was swollen and blackened with ugly bruising, but they were open (mostly) and that was what mattered.

Neal even managed to grin back, albeit a bit goofily.

"Oh, no, you don't," Peter shot back. Then he added in an accusing tone (even as relief flooded through him), "Meanwhile . . . you were awake the whole time."

"Nah, not the whole time," Neal insisted. "But long enough to hear what a great job I did. Hughes . . . he likes me, Peter, he really likes me."

"How could he not?" Peter answered wryly. "So how do you feel?"

Neal considered it for a moment. "Not too bad. Tired. Med'cated, I guess."

"Just as well."

"Yeah, prolly," Neal said. Then, hopefully, "C'n I go home now?"

Peter shook his head at that little bit of absurdity. Then again, Neal was still loopy, loaded up with painkillers—and hadn't seen himself either. He probably had no idea right now how bad off he really was. "No way, you're too banged up. Maybe tomorrow, but that's up to the professionals. And I wouldn't get your hopes up," he quickly added.

Privately, Peter thought Neal looked like someone who needed to be in the hospital for a week, minimum, but he knew it wasn't up to him—and he knew that wasn't the way things worked in hospitals these days. In fact (somewhat to Peter's dismay), the doctor he'd spoken with had already left open the possibility that Neal could be discharged as early as tomorrow, depending on how he was feeling and the type of assistance he had available to him at home. _He doesn't look good, Agent Burke, but the good news is that his injuries don't necessarily require an acute level of care, _Dr. Wellson had pointed out. _He'll be on painkillers and bed rest, and he doesn't have to be here for those._

As Neal listened, wide-eyed, Peter listed the various injuries the doctors had patched up.

"Huh. So . . . Dr. Burke was mostly right," Neal remarked when Peter was finished.

Peter just smiled modestly and poured him some water.

After drinking with Peter's help, Neal leaned back on the pillows, sighing as he listlessly ran his free hand along the thin blanket. Peter's eye was drawn to the stark white bandaging on his wrist where the wire had sliced into the skin. Peter had cuts on his wrists, too, from pulling on the tightened handcuffs, but he'd needed little more than a couple of glorified Band-Aids, essentially. Both of Neal's wrists had been a mess; Peter only hoped there wouldn't be too much scarring.

Neal reached up to gingerly explore his face, looking mildly alarmed at what he felt there. "Huh. That's . . . swollen."

"Yeah," Peter agreed.

Eyeing Peter's own bruised face, Neal grimaced. "You, too." As Peter nodded, Neal let his gaze travel down to Peter's sling, frowning. "What about that—how's the arm?"

"All stitched up," Peter assured him. "Have to keep it immobilized for a little bit—like yours—but it'll be good as new before long."

In truth, it wasn't like Neal's. Peter had never broken a collarbone, but he knew people who had. So he knew that that kind of injury was going to hurt like a bitch with any movement—and likely would continue to hurt long after the wounds on Peter's arm had mostly healed. Not that he was going to share that gloomy prognosis with Neal. The doctors could handle that—when Neal was in a more alert state of mind.

"That's right," Neal said suddenly, like he was remembering something. In an animated voice, he added, "I was thinking that earlier—we have matching injuries. That's really somethin', huh?"

"Yeah, charming," Peter said dryly. "People are going to start to talk."

Neal laughed at that, wincing a bit at the movement. " 'S funny," he said drowsily, closing his eyes again. "I was _so_ sure that our biggest risk of death today was when you were behind the wheel."

"I could have told you that was wrong. Oh, wait. I _did_ tell you," Peter reminded him. _Even dazed, Neal was still a smartass. _He thought for a few seconds and then remarked, "You were right about one thing, though."

Neal blinked his eyes open, looking eager. "Only one?"

"The only one I'm talking about at the moment," Peter told him, mock-sternly.

"'Kay. I'm listening."

"You really do evil pretty well."

"Toldja," Neal said with a smug grin. "The plan worked."

"Ah, yes, the plan. The _devious, nefarious _plan." Peter added.

"Uh, no," Neal said, looking disturbed. Peter gave him a quizzical glance. "That was a totally different plan," Neal informed him, now smiling crookedly.

"Really?" It took a second or two before it clicked for Peter. "Oh, right. Different plan. You . . . never told me about the hat."

"Huh," Neal said. Then he stopped and closed his mouth, thinking.

"Yes?" Peter prompted.

A long pause ensued, at the end of which Neal finally said, "Um. I forgot."

"Ah," Peter said. His initial satisfaction faded quickly. "Wait. You mean you forgot to wear a hat today, or you forgot _why _you didn't wear a hat today?"

"You always get right to the heart of things, Peter," Neal said appreciatively.

"Thank you. And that is not an answer."

Neal just smiled.

Peter had every intention of pursuing this line of questioning—yes, he had a moral code, but he was absolutely _not_ above taking advantage of Neal's semi-lucidity to get the answers he was looking for. Elizabeth's untimely return derailed that plan, however.

"Neal!" She rushed in, beaming at the sight of him, and Peter moved aside to make room so she could come close and grab Neal's hand. "You're awake! We've been hoping you'd wake up soon."

"Thanks," Neal said, smiling back. "But you guys didn'—you didn't have to sit here with me."

Elizabeth and Peter locked eyes for a moment.

"Yeah, we did," Peter said, thinking of Hughes' comment. Then he added, in a lighter tone, "Because somebody has to keep an eye on you."

"Oh," Neal said, frowning as he paused to think it over. Judging from the expression on his face—and the time that passed before he continued—thinking was requiring a considerable amount of effort. "No anklet, right? 'S okay. You c'n go home. Promise I won't go anywhere."

"Not _that _kind of eye, Neal," Elizabeth said, turning to shoot a disapproving glance at Peter. She was pleased to see that her husband's expression mirrored her own as he shook his head at Neal. "We've been worried about you."

"Oh," Now Neal had a startled little smile on his face. "Oh, okay. 'Preciate that. Thass . . . really nice of you."

Elizabeth tried not to think about how clearly unaccustomed Neal was to having someone care about him. How heart-breakingly surprised he was that they'd stayed.

She was about to respond—but found that she had to swallow a lump in her throat instead.

Peter, not normally the most sensitive person in the world, jumped in to lighten the mood, bless him. "You know, Neal, considering how long it took you to wake up, I was starting to think you were fibbing when you talked before about that hard head of yours."

Neal looked confused for a second; then his expression changed to one of hurt. "Aw, Peter. How many times do I hafta tell you? I _don'_ lie to you." He wagged his head back and forth with each sing-song word in the last sentence, for emphasis.

Clearly, he was dead serious—except the effect was undermined by the fact that he looked and sounded very much like a defiant toddler.

"Well," Peter allowed, trying not to laugh, "maybe not _lied_. Maybe just . . . embellished."

Neal's pout disappeared as he nodded thoughtfully. "Oh. Well. Embell—bellished? Now _that_, I might do."

"I would expect nothing less," Peter told him in a solemn tone.

"All right, enough, you two," Elizabeth said, mock-glaring at both of them. "Now, Neal," she said brightly, "Peter told me you were quite the hero today."

Again, Neal's face showed surprise. "Really?"

"What?" she joked. "You weren't?"

Neal's gaze flicked quickly to Peter before returning to El's face. "I passed out," he said, voice sheepish. "Coupla times. And got . . . got hit by a truck. Did 'e tell you that?"

"Yes, and he also told me that you knocked out that—that man," Elizabeth said stoutly. "That you got help—_risked your life_ to get help—and that you hurried back so you could give him the key to the handcuffs."

"Oh, yeah. That." Neal waved a hand languidly, like it was all nothing, a minor point. "You know, it sounds waaaay better when _you_ say it. Anyway, I had to go back. For Peter. 'Cause, you know," he paused dramatically, "_somebody_ has to keep an eye on him." Looking very pleased with himself, he grinned at Peter, who couldn't help but smile back.

"Did I mention that he wanted to pick the cuffs because _using the key is boring_?" Peter interjected, which made Elizabeth laugh.

"Really?" she asked, looking at Neal expectantly. He managed a smirk, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head in a cheeky little nod.

It was a very Neal-like gesture—the first time since he'd woken up, Peter thought, that Neal had actually looked like himself.

"I don't get it, though," Neal said, growing serious. He glanced sideways at Peter, pausing to take a drink of water from the little cup. "I thought . . . I got the feeling you were kinda—well, kinda mad at me."

Peter sighed. "There's a difference between mad and worried, Neal."

In truth, he'd been a little bit of both, but he wasn't going to get into the nuances of his reaction now, with Neal half out of it.

"Hard to tell sometimes," Neal mumbled. "But 's true, you didn't give me the big lecture."

"Well, I would hope not," Elizabeth said softly. "Considering that you saved his life."

Suddenly her voice was thick with emotion. She didn't want to turn the moment maudlin, she really didn't—and she knew it would probably make both Peter and Neal uncomfortable—but Elizabeth couldn't help saying, "Thank you, Neal."

Neal stared at her, silent for a moment, before giving a definitive head-shake. "Oh, you don't have to—"

"Oh, yes, I do." Elizabeth didn't let him finish. "Without you, I . . ." she hesitated, looking away. "I don't even want to think about what might have happened."

"But it wasn't just me," Neal said stubbornly. "Peter—"

"—was a hero too, I know," she answered. "But that doesn't change the fact that you . . . that I can't thank you enough for what you did."

"But that's . . . I mean, I just did . . . what Peter and I _do_, y' know?" Neal seemed thoroughly puzzled—maybe even a little frustrated that Elizabeth didn't grasp what was, for Neal, an obvious point, one hardly worthy of explanation. Again, Peter was reminded of Neal, lying on the floor of the Howser clinic, drugged and struggling to express himself. "You don' need to—"

Peter took pity on him. "Neal," he interrupted, "do you know one of the main reasons El and I have been happily married for so long?"

Taken aback, Neal pondered the question, a line appearing between his brows. Again, it was jarring to Peter how long it took Neal to formulate a reply. Neal's normally quicksilver mind was so plainly not clicking on all cylinders, and Peter hated to see it.

Just when Peter was starting to worry that maybe Neal wasn't going to respond at all, his consultant finally ventured, "Um . . . because she's very patient?"

"No," Peter said, exasperated. "Well," he amended, catching Elizabeth's eye as she tried not to smile, "of course, she _is, _but I'm not talking about that."

When Neal's standard witty comeback didn't materialize, Peter explained patiently, "One of the secrets to our marriage is that I've learned not to argue with her. I suggest you do the same."

"_Oh_," Neal said, eyes widening and face clearing, like someone who'd just been stunned by a major revelation. Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

Peter nodded. "Yeah. Consider it a tip. Saves a lot of time and effort."

That got a little chuckle from Neal. "Guess you're right."

"Of course he is." Elizabeth smiled brilliantly at both of them.

Blinking his eyes, Neal reached up again. He frowned. "Why's my hair—it feels wet."

Elizabeth and Peter exchanged a glance. "I think they—they probably washed the blood out, Neal," El said gently. "It's probably still damp."

"Oh." Neal was still exploring the area with his fingers, wincing. "Right. I forgot. Yeah, it was . . . ." he didn't finish the thought, just kind of drifted off, distracted at what he felt as his hand moved to probe the bandage, the row of stitches on his forehead and then up into his hairline.

"Neal. You've got stitches there. You probably shouldn't touch that," Peter couldn't help saying, voice sharper than he'd meant it to be. He was cognizant of the fact that he sounded like a nagging parent, the scourge of teenagers everywhere.

"Okay, Dr. Burke," Neal muttered. "Just making sure they didn't shave my whole head." He let out a long sigh, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his face before letting his hand flop lifelessly down onto the blanket. "This . . . probably looks pretty bad, huh?"

Peter was opening his mouth to say, _uh, yeah, _but Elizabeth's sharp glance stopped him abruptly. Instead, she said, with her typical tact, "You're not your usual handsome self, Neal, but you will be. Cuts and bruises heal, you know. A little time and you'll be as good as new." She finished it off with a reassuring smile which Peter hastily copied (after she shot him another meaningful look).

"Anyway," she added, "a lot of women go in for the rugged look, you know."

"Rugged, huh? Okay, then. I'm gonna. . . hold ya to that," Neal said, a little smile playing around the corners of his lips as he blinked lazily.

A nurse came in, then, followed shortly by the doctor who mostly reiterated Peter's summary of Neal's injuries. Peter thought Neal would have asked more questions, especially about when he might be discharged, but Neal just listened quietly, hollow-eyed. He was flagging, face growing slack and eyes fluttering to half-mast at times.

The doctor departed and Neal fell asleep soon after. Only then, finally, did Peter let Elizabeth take him home, where she fed him soup and promptly insisted he go to bed. He was far too exhausted to object.

* * *

He woke with a start.

The burning pain in his wrists and the numbness in his hands was the first thing that registered. _Which was strange, because, at the hospital, his wrists had been the least painful of his injuries. And his hands hadn't been numb anymore . . . ._

The second thing that registered was those goddamned cardboard boxes, right in front of his face.

_Oh, _he realized dimly, relieved. _You haven't woken up yet. You're dreaming. It's a dream. _And not one he wanted to have.

Peter knew about lucid dreams—when you were dreaming, but were _aware_ that you were dreaming and could control it. But Peter had never had one. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut tight for an instant, concentrating on waking up, on forcing himself back to reality.

Peter opened his eyes again, starting to turn his head so he could look over at El where she lay next to him. She was always his anchor.

For a moment, he actually felt his heart stop. He couldn't breathe. He was suffocating, terror choking him.

He wasn't in bed, with Elizabeth. He was back in the warehouse. They all were.

Or, at least, he and Regal were.

He remembered, then, that queer feeling he'd had when he'd been helpless, waiting for Neal to return. That unsettling fear that he'd fallen asleep, that he couldn't tell what was real.

And now he realized, with horrible certainty, that everything after that—what he'd thought was real—must have been his mind supplying something else. Supplying the happy ending he'd been hoping for so desperately.

He'd dreamed it. All of it. Dreamed that they'd escaped, dreamed that they were okay.

_When in fact he was still trapped._

Peter was still handcuffed, Regal was knocked out, lying on the floor. Neal was nowhere to be seen. He'd gone to try and find help.

_But Regal was moving._

_Shit._

Peter watched, paralyzed with fear and shock, unable to accept what he was seeing, as Regal moaned and his eyelids fluttered. He turned his head to the left and then back again.

_This isn't real,_ Peter thought wildly. _It's not._

_But if this is a dream, then why aren't you waking up?_

It took a while—maybe a minute—but soon enough, Regal was sitting up, fully awake, cursing and wiping blood off his face with a handkerchief. He blinked up at Peter, finally focusing on him. There was a dangerous look on his face, but Regal said nothing as he got up. Then he pulled a small gun from his pocket—_so he will be able to shoot you after all_—and advanced on Peter.

"Where did he go?"

Peter was silent. His mind seemed capable of only one coherent thought: _this can't be real._

And yet, everything told him it was.

What he could see—the sharp, vivid detail of the blood on Regal's face, the grain on the cardboard boxes, the dull gleam of the handcuffs in the dim light.

What he could hear—the menacing timbre of Regal's voice, the familiar, low hum of the ventilation system.

What he could feel—the biting pain in his wrists, his shoulders, the pounding of his pulse, thrumming hard through his body.

_It can't be real. _

_Except . . . it feels real. All of it._

Regal smiled. "Nothing to say? Perhaps I can persuade you." He reached up to touch Peter's numb hand. "Can you even feel this, Agent Burke? With the lack of circulation, probably not. Just imagine, I could break your finger right now, or slice it off, and you wouldn't even know it." He scrutinized Peter thoughtfully. "And that would be no fun at all."

Peter wasn't prepared for the vicious kick Regal delivered to the back of his knee, first the left and then the right. _That, he could feel. _He gasped as his knees started to buckle, as agony shot up and down his legs.

"Now, I need to go find Neal before that slippery little scoundrel gets too far. But I'll be back, Agent Burke," Regal said. He slammed the gun into the small of Peter's back and Peter fell forward into the shelves, coughing and gasping in agony. "You won't go anywhere, will you?" he chuckled. "Neal's going to want to see you, I'm sure."

Then the back of Peter's head exploded with pain and his world went dark.

* * *

When he came to, it was to the sound of Regal's voice calling his name, and to ripping, screaming agony in his wrists, his shoulders, his head. Peter opened his eyes, pressing his lips together to keep from making a sound. Struggling to right himself, he looked up to see that his wrists were red with blood where the handcuffs had cut into them as he'd hung there, unconscious. The wetness had run down his arms, making them sticky and damp. The quantity of blood, more than anything else, told him he must have been out for a while.

Regal was walking toward him. In his right hand, he held the gun. With his left arm, he dragged a semi-conscious Neal beside him. Neal's arms were still behind his back, he was white-faced and sweaty, having difficulty walking. More blood was trickling down the side of his face.

Neal hadn't gotten free. He hadn't found help.

Regal had found him first.

"Look who's here, Agent Burke. Our little trio is back together; aren't you pleased?" Regal said, face alight with excitement. He grasped Neal's arm, sliding his hand down to the wrists and twisting slightly. Neal grunted in pain.

"You need to wake up, Agent Burke. The best part is coming up and I don't want you to miss it."

Peter felt his heart drop in his chest. _Oh, God._

Regal looked Neal over. "Now that you're awake and back with us, we really need to have a discussion, you and I. About your . . . insubordination—an unpleasant topic, but one we must address. And about your future." He released his grip, watching with interest as Neal swayed on his feet, struggling to stay upright. "But you look a bit ragged."

Pursing his lips, Regal appeared lost in thought. "I know. I'm going to fetch something to make you more comfortable. While I do that, I must insist that you stay here, Neal—no more running off. If you're going to join my team, you'll need to demonstrate an ability to follow orders, so consider this your first chance to show me that you're a good fit."

"You do seem awfully unsteady, though. Can't have you falling, can we? Let's get you better situated, first."

He stepped behind Neal. Peter, watching nervously, couldn't see what he was doing, but a moment later, Neal leaned forward and fell to his knees, gasping in pain. Regal had grabbed his bound hands and pulled down sharply, forcing Neal to the ground. Regal let Neal's arms drop and Neal tottered slightly, then sank down, leaning back to sit on his heels.

Observing him, Regal sighed impatiently. "Now, Neal," he said—and the danger in his voice made Peter's stomach clench with fear—"did I say you could move?"

Regal shook his head. "I did not."

When Neal didn't react, Regal jerked Neal's arms up behind him to bring him up; Peter could hear the sharp intake of breath as Neal tried not to cry out. "Up. Sit up on your knees, like this. As I placed you."

Neal closed his eyes as Regal let go and walked around so he was right in front, with Neal's face next to the man's thigh.

"That's better. I don't think you can manage to stand for very long, and I don't want you lying on the floor and going back to sleep. Because, of course, I want you awake and with me, Neal. So this is a happy medium, don't you think?" Regal looked down at Neal, smiling fondly. "This is good. Just like this."

Regal stroked his head tenderly. "Oh, I do like you in this position, Neal."

Peter swallowed hard.

Then, noticing that Neal's eyes were closed, Regal raked a hand through his hair. He forced Neal's head back, instantly whiplashing from affectionate to vicious, in that terrifying way he had. "Open your eyes. This is important."

Neal's eyes fluttered, but didn't open, and Regal backhanded him casually across the mouth, the force of the blow snapping Neal's head to the side. "Neal, when I give you an order, I strongly recommend immediate compliance. Unless you enjoy being hurt. Perhaps you do—are you a masochist, Neal? _That_ would add an intriguing twist—could be quite amusing, actually," he added with a chuckle. Then his voice turned icy once more. "Look at me."

Slowly, Neal obeyed, turning his head back toward Regal and opening his eyes. The vacant look in them made Peter's heart skip a beat in fear. Blood was oozing from a fresh gash on Neal's lower lip.

"There you are," Regal said approvingly. "Now, I need to fetch something, but I'm expecting to find you in this position when I return. _This exact position. _ You can do that, can't you, Neal?"

When Neal didn't answer right away, Regal grabbed Neal by the hair and pulled his head back. With his other hand, he stroked Neal's exposed throat. "Speak when you're spoken to."

Then he closed his hand around Neal's neck and squeezed.

Neal's body spasmed weakly, trying to get away, but Regal only shook his head in irritation and tightened his grip. "Didn't I just tell you not to move? I'm starting to think you're incapable of following even the simplest commands. Which, I must tell you," he added, smiling maliciously, "is going to make things so, so difficult for you."

He leaned down, his face very close to Neal's. "I'll let you in a little secret, though, Neal. I might appear annoyed at the moment, but if you do decide to resist, you'll make me very happy. Because I could do this all day."

Eyes wide with panic, Neal let out a strangled, choking sound, fighting to draw in air while Regal watched dispassionately. After a few seconds of this, though it felt like an eternity to Peter, watching in silent terror, Regal released Neal, with a warning look.

"Will you stay here, Neal?"

"Y—yes," Neal said quickly. His voice was hoarse and sounded nothing like his normal tone. It sounded broken. "Yes."

"That's good. I hope you'll be obedient while I'm gone, Neal." Regal turned and walked away. "Because if you aren't, if you're not exactly where I left you, I'll shoot Agent Burke. Don't worry," he called back breezily, "somewhere nonfatal. I'll even let you pick where."

He stopped next to Peter, inspecting him with a gleam in his eye.

"By the way," Regal said, "while you were asleep, I planned a special surprise. Just for you."

He grinned, a sinister smile that froze Peter's blood in his veins. "I don't want to spoil it, but let's just say you have something very exciting to look forward to. I can't wait to see your reaction."

Peter watched him stroll away, afraid to even consider what Regal was talking about. As soon as the man was out of earshot, Peter pushed back his horror, whispering fiercely, "Neal! _Neal! _Get up. You've got to get up, get away while you can."

Neal didn't answer. He was wobbling, fighting to stay balanced on his knees as Regal had ordered. His head was bowed; Peter wasn't sure his eyes were even open.

"NEAL!" Peter said, speaking as loudly as he dared. "You have to get up! Please, go, _now_. It might be your last chance to—"

"No." Neal's voice was flat and emotionless. "Can't."

"Yes, you can," Peter shot back. "You just did. You got up once, you can do it again. You have to, Neal."

"He'll sh-shoot you," Neal said, voice quavering now. He raised his eyes to stare at Peter. Now that he was closer, Peter could see the fresh blood on Neal's face, the sheen of sweat on his skin, the glassy, unfocused look in his eyes. Peter's heart sank.

"No, he won't," Peter lied. "He's bluffing. You have to go now, Neal. I'll be fine. An agent is a bargaining chip, and he knows that. He won't kill me."

"No. He'll hurt you."

"So what?" Peter said, his desperation momentarily replaced by anger. "Jesus, Neal—you don't think he's going to hurt me anyway? Think about it. If you get away, you can get help. You can save us both, Neal, you—"

"I can't—can't get away. He'll find me. He'll hurt you," Neal repeated. The quiet resignation in his voice, the defeat in his eyes - it made Peter's gut churn.

"_Neal, you have to go now!_"

Neal's chance of getting away was slim, Peter knew. But it was the only chance they had.

Neal didn't answer. He was looking down again, staring blankly at the floor. Blood from the cut lip was running down his chin and hitting the ground, splattering dark red on the gray concrete. Neal gazed at it, seemingly mesmerized.

Before, although Neal had been dazed, Peter had been able to reach him. But now, Peter realized, filled with dread, that Neal wasn't responding.

Now, Neal was dazed and petrified, and the combined effect had been to completely paralyze him.

"Listen to me, Neal," Peter said, fighting to keep the panic out of his voice. "Just listen and think. Okay? Think about this logically. The only chance you have, that either of us has, is if you go now. You have to—"

At the sound of footsteps behind him, Peter stopped abruptly.

_Too late._

Regal had returned, carrying a straight-backed metal folding chair in one hand and a leather bag in the other.

"Congratulations, you've passed your first test," Regal said, surveying Neal with a satisfied air as he swayed before him, still on his knees, shaking with the effort. "So docile, and I know that's not in your nature. Though I must admit to being conflicted—I would have enjoyed the chance to use Agent Burke for some target practice. Oh well, plenty of time for that later, I'm sure."

He dragged the chair over, near to Neal. "As a reward for your compliance, see what I've brought you. So you can be comfortable while we talk. Would you like to sit?"

Neal nodded.

"Speak, Neal." Regal walked up to him, raising a hand in front of his face, and Neal cringed slightly. But Regal merely used his index finger to point a warning at him, then laid it gently across his lips, rubbing up and down. He finished by carefully wiping the blood from Neal's lower lip, as Neal fought to remain still, to not react to the touch. "I like to hear your voice."

"Yes," Neal whispered, when Regal had finally removed his finger from Neal's mouth.

"Very good. You may get up," Regal said, wiping his bloody finger off on the collar of Neal's open shirt and waving his hand in the direction of the chair. "Please, have a seat." He left, obviously unconcerned that Neal could be any sort of threat, and went over to the bag he had dropped on the floor.

Neal shifted, struggling to maintain his balance while trying to stand. By the time Regal returned to his side, Neal had managed to put one foot in front of him, but he hadn't gotten any further.

Eyeing him impatiently, Regal sighed. "Really, Neal. We don't have all day." He stepped behind, once more wrenching Neal's wrists up behind him violently to force him to stand. Neal gasped as Regal threw him onto the chair and then sat there, slumped quietly.

Peter saw that in his other hand, Regal held a length of wire like the one wrapped around Neal's wrists. He stood behind Neal and yanked his bound hands through the space in the chair back, then pulled them down sharply so his arms were taut. Neal hissed in pain as Regal used the wire to secure his wrists to a rung that ran around the bottom of the chair.

That task complete, Regal walked back around front to survey the scene. Neal was now leaning back awkwardly, forced to do so by the way his wrists were tethered, far down behind him, near the bottom of the chair. He couldn't sit up, or lean forward, without increasing the strain on his already-rigid arms and shoulders. He was effectively immobilized, with Regal looming over him dangerously, seeming to enjoy his victim's vulnerability.

Regal pursed his lips thoughtfully, eyeing Neal and then glancing back at Peter.

"I think we need to reposition you, just a bit." He gripped Neal's arm and pulled, dragging him, chair and all, a few feet to the right, closer to the shelves. Then Regal jerked Neal around so that he was in profile to where Peter stood. Neal clenched his jaw to keep from crying out. "That's better. I did promise Agent Burke a front row seat."

Regal paced around Neal, once, twice, like a shark might circle helpless prey that was floundering in the water. He quickly tired of this when he noticed that his captive wasn't responding, stopping in front of Neal.

"Neal, Neal," Regal said, sing-song, drawing out the name so that it had two syllables – _Ne-al_.

Delicately, he reached a finger out toward Neal's face and tipped his chin up, forcing Neal to meet his gaze.

"Manners, Neal. We need to talk and it's just impolite for you not to look at me when I'm speaking to you."

Again, Regal began to pace around the chair, surveying Neal from all angles as he walked. Neal tried to follow him, then, watching as Regal disappeared behind him and then turning his head sluggishly as Regal came around the other side.

Regal noticed it and smiled in satisfaction.

"Now, the next item on our agenda is discipline. I need to punish you for running—by putting a bullet here." He pulled the gun out of his pocket and pointed it at Neal's foot. "Or here." He pressed the muzzle against Neal's knee. "I like the symmetry of it—punishing you for running by making sure you can never run comfortably again. I'm not completely heartless, so I'll let you choose. Do you have a preference, Neal—foot or knee?"

"I thought . . . you wanted me to work for you," Neal said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Don't you . . . you need me to be able to move."

"A valid point," Regal conceded. "You really do have an answer for everything; I heard that about you. And maiming does seem an inauspicious way to start a relationship. Very well. But punish you I must."

He drew back, winding up his arm, and then slammed the gun into Neal's ribs.

Neal didn't make a sound until the third blow. By the fifth, he was screaming, and Regal nodded.

_Like the bastard been waiting for it._

"You won't attempt to escape again, will you?"

Through gritted teeth, Neal mumbled, "No."

Regal struck him again and Neal choked, starting to retch. He turned his head to the side, stomach heaving as he gagged, but nothing came up.

When Neal had finished, Regal lifted his arm in preparation for another blow and then halted his motion. "I wonder if you really mean that. Do you? Have you had enough, Neal?"

"Yes," Neal gasped, eyes squeezed shut. He coughed painfully, agony etched on his face.

"Yes, what?" Regal queried. "Convince me, Neal. That's your forte, isn't it? Persuading people that you're telling the truth? Getting them to do what you want? Perhaps you could . . . oh, I don't know, answer a bit more . . . fervently." He hit Neal again, driving the gun into his abdomen so hard that the impact rocked the chair to the side. It teetered on two legs momentarily before falling back down. Neal's head flopped sideways with the motion and the agonizing sounds he was making were shattering Peter, piece by piece.

"Also, it would help," Regal said, with a menacing edge to his voice, "if you looked at me, Neal. Surely I shouldn't have to tell a master con artist about the importance of maintaining eye contact."

Neal was making little, inarticulate, gasping noises, like he was incapable of forming words. Slowly, he dragged his head up. His eyes fluttered open; it was a few seconds before he could speak. "_Yes_ . . . please," Neal finally choked out between harsh gasps of pain. "Please stop."

Regal glanced over at Peter, a delighted smile on his face. "What did I say? _Enchanting._"

Peter thought he might be sick.

"Given what you did to me, I should strike you here, Neal, really," Regal remarked, running the gun lightly over Neal's face. "If we're being _symmetrical_ about it." He pressed harder and Neal recoiled, turning his head to the side. "But I can't have you passing out again. Also, right now, I'm enjoying looking at you, just as you are, and I don't want to deprive myself. One thing you'll quickly learn about me, as we become much better acquainted, is that I really don't deny myself any of life's pleasures."

He smiled, tucking the gun away, and then caressed Neal's face with his left hand, forcing Neal to look at him once again. "And your appearance right now is very, very pleasing to me, Neal."

"Well, I'm glad we got that out of the way," Regal said airily. "On to the important part. I was curious to know if you'd be interested in joining my team." He hovered over Neal, his gaze penetrating.

Licking his lips, Neal started to talk, then had to swallow before starting again. "What—what's in it for me?"

Regal laughed. "I like the way you think, Neal. Even in your current, trying circumstances. An excellent question, and a fair one. The short answer is: everything. All you could want. Wealth, independence, excitement, the chance to use your . . . unique skills. And best of all, you'd be free of _that_," he added contemptuously with a nod in Peter's direction.

"Sounds . . . appealing," Neal said, his voice uninflected.

"I'm glad you think so." Regal turned, abruptly and took two steps to stand behind Neal. Neal tried to twist his head to look at him, but Regal pressed his hands against Neal's temples, preventing him from turning his head. "No, no. Not this time. You may face front, Neal. Just relax."

Regal dropped his hands down, onto Neal's shoulders. "You're so tense, Neal. I can feel it everywhere. In every muscle. Let me try to help." He began to massage Neal's neck and shoulders. Neal inhaled sharply.

"I think we could do wonderful things together." Peter saw Regal dig his fingers into Neal's neck. Neal squeezed his eyes shut as his body stiffened in reaction. "Do you think so?"

Neal nodded once, hesitantly, and Regal tightened his grip, frowning. "Ne-al." His voice was a warning.

Neal's eyes shot open and he choked out, "Yes."

"I was hoping you'd agree. There'd be no more nine-to-five drudgery for you. However, to be free of _that_," Regal said, with another withering glance at Peter, "we'll first have to free you from this." He moved to Neal's left and bent down low, putting his hand on Neal's knee. Startled, Neal looked down, following Regal's hand as he slowly slid it down Neal's calf, in a sinuous, caressing motion, until he touched the anklet. "Ah, there it is."

"Now this—" he lifted the cuff of Neal's pants and tapped the black strip sharply, "_this _is a problem. I was wondering if . . . if you had any thoughts on possible solutions."

"If you cut it, there's a—there's an alert," Neal ventured.

Regal shot him an annoyed glance. "That's not a solution, Neal, that's merely a restatement of the problem. I have done some research here, you know, so I know how the device works. And also that it can be unlocked without triggering any alarms. Isn't that correct?" He stood up.

Neal blinked, head down, still staring down at the anklet. "Yes."

Regal fisted a hand in Neal's hair and pulled his head up sharply, eliciting a grunt of pain. He didn't let go until Neal's eyes met his. "I'm up here, Neal."

"Now," Regal said pedantically, "I broached this topic with Agent Burke, earlier. He insisted that he didn't have the key in his possession. He was quite definitive on that point." Regal glanced over at Peter, then, and the look on his face sent Peter's heart plummeting into his stomach.

"He—he doesn't trust me," Neal said in a small voice. He was trying to project contempt, and, Peter thought, not quite succeeding.

Regal nodded. "Yes. Yes, he said that, too. How does that make you feel?"

Neal's expression changed, just a fraction; Peter could tell that wasn't what he'd been expecting. "I'm . . . used to it."

"But you shouldn't have to be, Neal," Regal said, his voice full of sympathy.

Peter heard himself say, "Neal agreed to the terms of his release. Hell, he suggested them."

Regal looked over at him icily. "If I want to hear from you, Agent Burke, you'll be the first to know. In the meantime, FBI agents should be seen and not heard. And if you speak out of turn again, I'll happily shove a gag so far down your throat you won't be able to breathe, much less talk. Is that clear?"

Fury was making Peter's pulse race as he stared back at Regal. Finally he said, because he knew Regal would make him answer, "Yes."

"Good, because I won't warn you again," Regal replied, smiling approval in a way that only enraged Peter more. "And I would derive an almost indecent amount of pleasure from ramming a gag into your mouth. So unless you're into that sort of thing, you really should refrain from tempting me."

"Now," Regal said, returning his focus to Neal, "back to practical matters. I'd very much like to access the key to your electronic monitor. I'm sure you would as well, wouldn't you, Neal?"

Neal nodded, a jerky, awkward motion, and, at Regal's warning look, said hastily, "Yes."

"I thought so," Regal said. He walked back behind Neal, looming over him. Once again, he placed his hands on Neal's shoulders, kneading the flesh. Peter saw Neal clench his jaw and move convulsively in the chair as Regal dug his fingers into the muscles, sliding his hands in closer toward Neal's neck.

"Now, Neal, really, this shouldn't hurt," Regal noted, sounding curious. "You're awfully sensitive—ah." He dropped his hands away from Neal's right shoulder and massaged the left one vigorously. When Neal didn't react, he returned to Neal's right shoulder, using both hands to clamp down on the joint and then twist cruelly.

White-faced with pain, Neal cried out. His head lolled back and for a moment, Peter thought he might pass out. Observing Neal closely, Regal smiled. "I can see you've got an injury here, Neal. Which, of course, you sustained trying to escape, meaning it's no one's fault but your own. You'll have to be more careful in the future. If you behave yourself, I'll see about getting that looked at later."

He paused for a moment, contemplating. "But rewards must be earned. I'm sure I can think of a way for you to earn that sort of privilege. Given time, I'll come up with _something. _Some task, some service you could perform for me . . . ."

Still standing behind Neal, Regal grinned gleefully at Peter before letting go of that injured shoulder and leaning down, so his head was right next to his victim's. Regal let his arms fall casually over Neal's shoulders, so they hung down in front, on his chest—a sick parody of a friendly hug. Peter watched as Regal idly traced little patterns on Neal's torso, deliberately prolonging the moment and enjoying Neal's discomfiture as he let his hands wander further down, playfully. Neal twitched involuntarily and then went rigid with fear, looking down at Regal's hands as they roved lower, toward Neal's groin.

"We _really_ do need to locate that key, Neal," Regal said earnestly.

Then Regal turned his head and began to whisper in Neal's ear. He was so close his lips were almost touching,

Neal's head was bowed at first, but as Regal continued, he looked up at Peter sharply, eyes wide with fear. His whole body tensed.

Peter felt a horrible sense of foreboding. He couldn't hear what Regal was saying, but he could guess what the man was talking about. It had to involve Peter in some way, some alarming way.

Now Regal's hands were on Neal's chest, fingering the scratches he'd made before, when Neal had been unconscious. Peter saw Neal look down as Regal retraced the lines, pressing down hard enough to make Neal grimace in pain.

Releasing Neal, Regal stood up and began to circle him again. Peter waited, anxiety rising.

_What had Regal said to him?_

"So now," Regal remarked, "I'm going to ask you the question." He'd stopped in front of Neal, who was staring up at him blankly. On the surface, the man's tone was one of pleasant inquiry, but there was a dark undercurrent that filled Peter with dread. "Keep in mind what I explained earlier."

Regal bent down and leaned in so his face was inches away, his gaze boring into Neal. "Where is the key that unlocks your anklet?"

Neal swallowed, staring at Regal silently.

Peter tried to will Neal to look at him, tried to convey a warning, but Neal was staring desperately into Regal's eyes, transfixed. As if he was incapable of breaking the hold Regal's gaze had on him.

As if nothing else existed in the world other than their captor and those dark, penetrating eyes.

"I'm sure you know by now that I will require an answer, Neal." With a swift, sudden motion, Regal brought his hand up toward Neal's face and Neal flinched badly, expecting a blow and unable to control himself. Regal smiled contentedly at the sight of Neal's obvious terror, but instead of striking, he merely reached up to push away a stray lock of curling hair that had fallen down onto Neal's forehead. The gesture was revoltingly tender. "Now, now, there's no need for you to be so jumpy, as long as you answer the question."

His voice hardened. "Of course, if I have to compel you to reply, then—"

"It's in his pocket," Neal said, in a voice so low that Peter could barely make out the words, despite being only a few feet away.

Peter's heart sank. _Shit. _His lie was about to have disastrous consequences.

Regal turned to send a forbidding glare at Peter. "My goodness. So you're saying Agent Burke has been less than truthful with me?"

When there was no answer, Regal said, his voice dangerous, "Neal?"

"Yes," Neal said hoarsely.

Regal strode over to Peter and began to search him. Peter didn't have to wait long for the inevitable, as the man quickly located the key in his pants pocket.

Examining it, he gazed at Peter, shaking his head sadly in mock regret. "This makes at least three lies Agent Burke has told me today. First," Regal held up a finger, "he said you would never work for me. But, of course, you just said you would. Two, he claimed you didn't know that luscious wife of his, but, of course, you do. Three, he lied about having this." Regal held up the key.

"I explained to Agent Burke that any attempt to deceive me would have consequences, which means I have no choice but to follow through, because I'm a man of my word."

He turned on his heel and walked to where the bag lay on the floor, bending down to rifle through it. A moment later he stood up and turned around.

Peter sucked in a breath at the sight of the knife in Regal's hand as the man made his way back toward where Neal sat. He saw Neal stiffen as he, too, realized what Regal was holding.

"Do you know what a teachable moment is?" Regal inquired, his tone conversational. He was scrutinizing the knife, turning it first one way and then the other. When Neal didn't respond, Regal glanced over at him and sighed. "Neal, your tardiness in answering is becoming tiresome for me—and is about to become downright _excruciating_ for you."

Neal swallowed. "It's when—when you have a chance to . . . learn something."

Regal looked pleased. "Very good. Well, we're about to have just such a moment, right now."

Neal licked his lips and shifted in the chair. Peter could see him trying to reach his fingers up to feebly work at the wire that bound them.

"Now, Neal, I'll be honest. You have an ordeal ahead of you. This next bit will be rather difficult to endure," Regal said, looking troubled. "But do keep in mind that Agent Burke has put both of us in this position and there's nothing to be done.

"I'm going to mark you, Neal. With this." He brandished the knife. "Once for each falsehood Agent Burke has perpetuated here today. The consequences of Agent Burke's lies will have to be visited on you, Neal, I'm afraid. I warned him; those were the terms I set out."

Neal's fingers were still scrabbling frantically, hopelessly, at the bindings around his wrists. But Peter could see what Neal couldn't: he knew how tight that wire was, knew there was no chance Neal could escape it.

Regal touched the scratches on Neal's chest. "I've already started, as you can see. These are going to become permanent. Something else I want to emphasize, Neal, is how important it is that you remain quite still. At the risk of making you even more conceited than you already are, I have to say that you're very close to perfection. So I have quite a high standard to live up to. I want these to be perfect."

He looked over at Peter. "I'll let you speak, Agent Burke. I'm afraid you might have a stroke otherwise." Laughing to himself, Regal flipped Neal's loosened tie over his shoulder, out of the way. Then he ran his hand slowly over Neal's chest, studying him, and finally unfastened more buttons on Neal's shirt, pushing it back, off his shoulders, exposing more of Neal's torso.

"No," Peter said, striving to keep his voice from shaking. "This isn't how it was supposed to be."

In the act of bringing the knife down, Regal hesitated.

Slightly encouraged, Peter went on, pleading now. "You were supposed to hurt me, not him. You said you'd hurt me to get to him."

"I know," Regal admitted; the bastard actually sounded embarrassed. "I did say that, and I pride myself on keeping my word." He gave Peter a helpless glance. "But look at him, Agent Burke. He's so exquisite when he's suffering. How on earth do you expect me to resist that?"

"And, as it turns out, I didn't have to hurt you to obtain Neal's cooperation. I merely had to threaten you and Neal has behaved so, so beautifully for me."

Returning his attention to his victim once more, Regal laid one hand, gently, atop Neal's head. "Brace yourself, Neal."

With his other hand, he lowered the knife, taking a moment to line it up painstakingly, and then slicing downward, his motion slow and careful. Neal gritted his teeth; his harsh breathing, through his nose, was the only sound he made.

As he watched the blade bite into Neal's skin, as the blood ran in twisting rivulets down his chest, Peter gave up all pretense of stoicism, of calm.

"Stop, please, God, _stop_. Don't do this. You don't have to do this. _Please_." He was begging, Peter knew, he was giving Regal exactly what he wanted, but Peter couldn't help himself. All semblance of pride was gone, with only horror left.

Horror and desperation.

"No, that one's a little off," Regal muttered to himself, ignoring Peter completely as he frowned down at Neal's bloody chest, scrutinizing his handiwork. "I'll just have to make them all longer, then."

He cut into Neal's flesh again, making a second mark, and this time Neal couldn't stop himself from jerking away, couldn't stifle a cry of pain.

Regal stopped, looking exasperated. "I know this stings, but the more you move, the worse it will be."

Neal looked up, then, right at Peter, and whispered, "_Please._" He didn't say it to Regal, he said it to Peter. As if he were begging Peter to help him. The naked despair, the terror in his pleading voice was like a punch to Peter's gut. Peter felt like he was drowning in his own helplessness. He wanted to close his eyes, cover his ears, so he couldn't see or hear Neal's agony, so he could pretend his partner wasn't begging for his help while Peter stood there, completely and utterly fucking useless.

"I'm sorry, Neal, but I can't stop now. I'm sure you feel this is dreadfully unfair. Hurting you in order to teach _him _a lesson." Regal paused and threw a caustic glance at Peter. "This isn't just about Agent Burke, though. I know how expert a liar _you_ are, Neal. You lie without thinking, you lie without even trying. It's a skill I'm going to make great use of. But I can't stress enough the importance of complete candor in your dealings with me. I'm sure you'll be tempted to deceive me, and when you are, I want you to think of this moment, remember this pain, and realize that if you ever lie to me, the consequence will be much worse than what you're feeling now."

Regal was interrupted by the sound of footsteps, followed by the appearance of a slender, blond-haired man, wearing a dark gray suit and slim tie. His features were delicate, almost effeminate, and his eyes were a striking, light blue color.

"My, my. Look at that. Superb. You were not exaggerating when you said the photos didn't do him justice," the man said admiringly. He spoke with an accent that sounded vaguely European—Dutch maybe, or Swedish. "You've really outdone yourself this time."

"Haven't I, though?" Regal smiled. "Meet Neal Caffrey, my latest discovery. Neal, this is Drake."

Automatically, Peter started to file the name away for future reference, because that was what he always did. Then he realized it didn't matter, because he had no future. He wouldn't be participating in this investigation. It hit him suddenly, then, the grim certainty that he was going to die. That he was living through the last few minutes of his life, here and now. The only questions were how long Regal would wait, the method he would use—and what kind of torment he would force Peter to witness before the end. What else he would do to Neal.

_And that surprise he told you about . . . . _

The new arrival walked over to stand on Neal's right, gazing down and letting his eyes rove over him from head to toe.

He smiled, a slow, deep smile. Something about the soulless eyes above that smile sent shivers down Peter's spine. They were a very pale blue, so light they were almost colorless, and they glittered with excitement when he looked at Neal.

"May I?"

"Be my guest," Regal said, stepping back and making an expansive gesture in Neal's direction.

Moving in close, Drake reached out a thin, claw-like hand and ran it through Neal's hair, tilting his head first one way, then the other, like a buyer examining a piece of merchandise.

"Poor thing," the man said, voice dripping with mock sympathy. "He looks exhausted. Should we be concerned about his lack of stamina?" He eyed Neal with a skeptical gaze. "A few minutes of your ministrations and the dear boy is already worn out."

Regal smiled indulgently. "Our Neal's not himself at the moment. We've been engaged in a bit of a tutorial, for disciplinary purposes, and it's caused him to be a bit . . . subdued."

The man studied Neal's various cuts and bruises, lingering on the bleeding chest, and raised his eyebrows, looking amused. "He must have been a very bad boy," he said, chuckling. "Either that, or you're just in one of your infamous moods."

"A bit of both," Regal answered. "He did do this, after all." He indicated his injured face with a regretful wave of his hand.

The other man looked intrigued. "Ah. So he's a feisty one, is he?" There was a kind of hunger in his eyes, now, as he stared at Neal.

"You could say that. I've also learned that I tend to a bit of excess when I have an audience . . . now, Neal." Regal snapped his fingers impatiently, right in front of Neal's face, causing Neal to startle. "Show some common courtesy and say hello to your new colleague."

"H'llo," Neal mumbled obediently.

"I'm sure that, over time," Regal said, petting Neal's head fondly, "we'll be able to impress upon Neal the importance of a little more . . . enthusiasm in his interactions with us."

"I should hope so," his partner answered. "And our other guest?"

"This is Agent Burke. Neal's former handler."

"Ah," the man said, and the anticipatory look he gave Peter was unnerving. "Ah, yes. Does he know?"

Regal's crafty smile made Peter's breath catch in his throat.

"I told him we had a surprise for him, yes. But I didn't want to spoil it."

Peter's heart stuttered painfully in his chest.

"Is he here?" Regal inquired.

The man nodded, smiling as his eyes flicked to Peter again and then back to Regal. "Right behind me."

That was when Peter stopped breathing.

When a third man came in.

With Elizabeth.

Peter stared. The flood of horror was so overwhelming that initially he couldn't do anything but stare, paralyzed. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move, he couldn't speak. He could only watch and feel cold, numbing terror envelop him like a sheet of ice.

_No._

The man had Elizabeth by the arm. When Peter first saw her, she actually looked angry, rather than scared. Then she caught sight of Peter and stopped dead. Her eyes widened and something in her face seemed to crumble. Her captor glanced back and pulled roughly to keep her moving; she stumbled and would have fallen if not for the crushing grip he had on her arm.

"It's a good thing I had stored Elizabeth's number on my phone, since yours was no longer usable," Regal remarked as the man dragged Elizabeth closer. She was struggling now, fighting, and her captor swore, jerking her arm up behind her back, making her cry out; Peter's heart twisted at the sight and sound of Elizabeth being hurt, at his inability to do anything but watch. "I do try to think a few steps ahead; it's one of my distinguishing characteristics."

Peter didn't look at him, or speak. He couldn't tear his eyes or his mind away from the sight of his wife, helpless in the hands of these bastards. The man forced Elizabeth to a stop in front of Regal, who advanced so he was only a few inches away as he looked down at her appraisingly.

_You couldn't protect Neal, you couldn't protect El, and now Regal's going to—_

"It's so lovely to meet you, Mrs. Burke," Regal said, his voice pleasant and warm. Like the two of them had been introduced at a party or something. "I'm Jameson Regal. But, do you mind if I call you Elizabeth? As I told your loving husband earlier, it's such a pretty name, and _Mrs. Burke _seems so formal. Because, to be candid, I foresee a great deal of . . . informality in your future."

"No!" Peter heard himself screaming, finally getting his voice to work. "_No!"_

Regal reached out with a finger to gently lift Elizabeth's chin up so her eyes met his. Elizabeth—_God, he loved her so much—_didn't flinch or tremble. She looked straight back at Regal, eyes blazing defiantly in her pale face.

Regal turned his head to smile cruelly at Peter. Savoring his total victory.

"Get your hands off her, you goddamned _fucking bastard!_" Peter shouted desperately. Helplessly. He was distantly aware of the other man-Drake-laughing in the background.

"You know, I asked you, earlier, if your wife was a patient woman, and you never really answered me," Regal said nonchalantly, ignoring Peter's words and returning his gaze to Elizabeth's face. "But no matter. Because now I'll get to discover that for myself."

Peter heard himself shouting. _Nonononono._

Elizabeth had been staring at Regal, but now she was looking at Peter, eyes filled with horror, and suddenly she was calling his name, her voice heartsick and desperate . . . .

_Except her mouth wasn't moving, so how could she be calling his name?_

"Peter! _Peter!" _

More than anything else, more than her hands on him, shaking him, it was the frantic note in her voice that penetrated the fog in his mind. Even before he opened his eyes, her voice brought him back to himself.

The movement hurt his arm, but he didn't mind it; the pain helped him back to reality, helped the last vestiges of the dream to fade away.

Because that was all it had been. A dream.

_El's here._

_Neal's okay._

_You're not back there. You're safe. Everyone is safe._

_It was just a dream._

He dragged his eyes open to find her very close, staring at him anxiously. Her eyes were wide with alarm. As he stared at her, breathing hard, it took a moment—too long, he knew—before he could speak, before he could reassure her the way he needed to.

"Peter?" she said hesitantly. "You . . ." she'd been about to say, _you're upset, _but _upset_ was such a completely inadequate description of what she'd just witnessed that she abandoned the thought.

"Hey," he croaked. "Hey, El. Sorry I woke you up."

She shook her head quickly, impatiently. "Are you okay?"

He took a couple of measured breaths, nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, it was just a bad dream."

Her eyes bored into him. "It—it must have been." The little tremor in her voice scared him; he didn't want to think about what it meant.

Peter nodded again. "Yeah, but I'm okay." He didn't know what else to say. He was still too stunned, too shaky to carry anything off convincingly at the moment, so he decided the less said, the better. As they settled back down, El snuggled up against him. She didn't ask about the dream, which was good because he didn't want to tell her. He wondered from the look on her face, how much he'd said aloud, in his sleep.

But he was afraid to ask her. He didn't want to know.

* * *

For Peter, dozing off had been so easy at first; he'd practically been nodding off at the dinner table. It was embarrassing, something a three-year-old would do. When he'd climbed into bed, it was one of those rare times when he'd seemingly fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Now, though, despite how bone-tired he was, _staying_ asleep was turning out to be considerably more difficult.

After the nightmare, it had taken what felt like hours for him to doze off again—in no small part because he feared a repeat performance. But as the minutes ticked by and he lay there, he could feel Elizabeth relax against him and almost against his will, he was relaxing, too. His weariness was a physical thing, pushing against all his defenses.

At some point, he'd fallen back to sleep. But not for long.

The familiar trill of his cell phone, sitting on the bedside table, woke him abruptly. Peter started to reach for it with his right hand and groaned, remembering that using that hand was not an option. Slowly he managed to get into a sitting position and leaned over, blinking at the pain.

The glowing numbers on his alarm clock read 3:07 am. _Well, this can't be good. _He thought, apprehensively, of Neal. _But Neal had been fine when he'd left him. Well, not fine, exactly, but not in any danger . . . ._

Finally he managed to get the phone in his left hand. Not a number he recognized. "Burke."

"_It was so thoughtful of you to leave Neal alone in his hospital room, Agent Burke. Without even his anklet to keep him company. Drugged and helpless, just the way we like him. It will make everything so much easier. Say hello to Agent Burke, Neal."_

_In the background, someone gasping for breath. Someone making desperate sounds, strangled sounds . . . ._

Peter's throat closed up and for an instant he couldn't speak. He opened his mouth, but nothing was coming out. He knew some of Regal's crew were still on the loose; Diana and Hughes had told him so. He could only think no, _no . . . ._

"_No_," he managed, finally, in a voice that was horrified and desperate and . . . primal. "_No! This isn't happening, you're—_"

"_Jameson did say he would share. And we're so much more resourceful than you give us credit for." _There was a pause, and another voice, no, more than one.

"_Look at him," _he heard someone else say, followed by low laughter that chilled Peter to the marrow. Then Neal cried out, it had to be Neal, it sounded too much like that scream in the warehouse when Regal had smashed into Neal's broken shoulder. Except this time it was a short, anguished cry cut off abruptly in the middle, by someone hurting him, hitting him . . . .

"_Say goodbye to Agent Burke, Neal." _

One long shuddering gasp.

Peter heard himself shout, "_Neal!"_

_Click._

The phone went dead.

* * *

Peter shot up in bed, panting with horror and looking wildly around the room.

The clock said 2:17 a.m.

_Just a dream,_ he told himself. _No. Call it what it is. Another goddamned nightmare. Again._

He forced himself to lay down slowly, flat on his back. Then he looked up at the ceiling, realizing that he was gasping like he'd just run a sprint. He tried to focus on the patterns of light and shadow that the streetlights outside were casting on the ceiling, the walls . . . .

Peter concentrated on evening out his breathing, on forcibly relaxing muscles that had automatically tensed in fear. He wanted to reach for his phone. The logical part of his mind scolded: _You don't have a phone any more, remember? _

Honestly, Peter wished he'd remembered that in the throes of the nightmare. It could have saved him from a near heart attack.

He could still get up, though, and call the hospital to make sure Neal was okay. He could put a call in to holding, to make sure Regal was there.

_Except that that would be ridiculous._

He turned his head to glance over at Elizabeth, thinking, _the only good thing about this is at least I didn't wake her up this time—_

_Shit. _

She was leaning up on her elbow, watching him silently, concern etched on her face.

"Peter?" Her voice was overly gentle, like you might speak to someone you were afraid of spooking. A tone he'd never heard from her before—not when speaking to _him, _anyway.

As the dream faded, Peter's fear receded and annoyance replaced it. He was angry with himself, that he was still out of control, having nightmares like a child. Keeping Elizabeth awake, scaring her.

He knew his smile was weak and probably not reassuring. Ruefully, he shook his head. "Hey, hon. Sorry I woke you up again."

"Don't apologize," she said, almost curt, which was unusual for Elizabeth. Then immediately her voice softened. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," he said quickly. "I'm fine. Just . . . ." he let the sentence dangle.

El's concern had morphed into a kind of indulgent incredulity, but she didn't voice it. Instead she said, "Come here," and he slid over awkwardly, fitting himself against her as she threw her left arm over him and held him tight,, careful to avoid his injured arm. Kind of a reversal of their usual cuddling, but it felt right. Maybe this was what he needed, right now.

Along with a sleeping pill. He hated those, though. He really did. That would be his very last resort.

Peter closed his eyes and breathed. In, out. In, out. He tried to think of peaceful things. Lying on the couch, watching TV with El. Surf lapping at the shore. Watching the sunset on the lake near his parents' house.

He tried not to think of Regal beating Neal brutally. Twisting Neal's shoulder, cutting Neal's chest. Making him beg, making him scream.

He tried not to think of Regal, touching Elizabeth's face.

_Just breathe. In, out. In out. _

_They're both safe. They're fine._

Fatigue washed over him, pulling him under.

But as badly as he needed to sleep, he couldn't.

The truth was, he didn't want to.

* * *

As Elizabeth drifted back to sleep, Peter stared at the ceiling, wide awake. Once he was sure she was breathing deeply, he slid himself away, disentangling himself carefully so he didn't wake her again. He padded down the hall to the spare bedroom and called the hospital, talked to one of the nurses. What he heard was reassuring.

Neal was fine, of course. In his room, sleeping peacefully.

Peter wished he could say the same for himself.

_TBC…._

* * *

_This chapter, particularly Peter's harrowing dreams, inspired by the beautiful, angsty song. Sleeping Sickness by City and Colour. Please do Google it and give a listen if you've not heard it before._

I awoke  
Only to find my lungs empty  
And through the night  
So it seems I'm not breathing  
And now my dreams are _nothing like they were meant to be_  
And I'm breaking down

I think I'm breaking down

And I'm afraid  
To sleep because of what haunts me  
Such as living with the uncertainty  
That I'll never find the words to say  
Which would completely explain  
Just how I'm breaking down

Someone come, someone come and save my life  
Maybe I'll sleep when I am dead  
But now it's like the night is taking sides  
With all the worries that occupy the back of my mind  
Could it be this misery will suffice?

I've become  
A simple souvenir of someone's kill  
And like the sea  
I'm constantly changing from calm to ill  
Madness fills my heart and soul

As if the great divide could swallow me whole  
oh, how I'm breaking down

Someone come, someone come and save my life  
Could it be this misery will suffice?

* * *

_A/N – Another gargantuan chapter, but what was I going to do—split it in the middle of Peter's nightmares? Anybody who thought it was real (did people think it was real?) might hunt me down! Seriously, though, as a cliffhanger that would have been, to me, unconscionable. Ergo, a true monster of a chapter—longer than what I usually prefer, but unavoidable._

_I know some readers out there were rooting for something else bad to happen—with others wanting nothing of the sort. Maybe this chapter has something for both camps. I'm eager to know what you think. _

_It's hard to believe we've passed the 100k word mark. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed. Your feedback is so important; I'm grateful for every bit of it! _

_Sorry for the delay in posting this. And, yes, we are in the home stretch now!_


	18. Like Bullets

**Chapter 18 – Like Bullets**

_**Memories are like bullets. Some whiz by and only spook you. Others tear you open and leave you in pieces.**_

― Richard Kadrey, _Kill the Dead _

* * *

When he'd fallen into bed the night before, drained, exhausted, and aching, Peter had hoped that the next morning would find him feeling, if not exactly refreshed and revived, at least human again. Instead, thanks to his restless night, he was still tired and out of sorts, feeling unexpectedly edgy.

Once he'd finally fallen sleep—and managed to stay that way—he'd actually slept in, to an embarrassing degree. Peter wished Elizabeth would have woken him earlier, but he was careful to keep that thought to himself. He was pretty sure of the reaction it would provoke from El.

His head, arm, and shoulders had hurt like hell when he'd gotten up. Now, as he sat at the kitchen table eating a late breakfast—it was more like brunch, really—after taking a pill, everything still hurt, though not as much. He was experimenting with how much medication to take so that he could keep the pain at a manageable level without making his head fuzzy.

From her position across the table, Elizabeth frowned at him as he tried to simultaneously eat toast and eggs, drink coffee (also juice, because she insisted on it), and talk on the phone. Since he was forced to do all of this using just his left hand, it was a cumbersome process.

When he ended the conversation, she shook her head at him. "Honey, you hardly even slept last night. You shouldn't be making work calls. Or . . . or going to work at all, today."

Peter sighed. The events of the overnight were the last thing he wanted to talk about. "I just had to touch base with the office about Neal. And I'm not working today, I promise. Reese said I'm not allowed—"

"Well, at least someone is being sensible," she interjected.

"—but, like I said, I am going to give a statement about yesterday. The good news is I don't have to be there 'til the afternoon." Prudently, he decided not to mention that Hughes had suggested sending an agent out to the house to record Peter's account. Knowing that he'd refused the offer wouldn't improve her mood any.

And he didn't want to take the chance of

Elizabeth overhearing anything he said.

Her face cleared a bit. "Well, I can cancel my meeting—it's nothing critical, just a vendor. I'll drive you."

He pondered for a moment. "Maybe you could still make the meeting. How about dropping me off at the hospital? I can see how Neal's doing, hang out with him til you're done, and then we can go to the Bureau together. If you don't mind waiting for me there."

Elizabeth considered it. "Not at all. Actually, that should work out fine." She smiled at him and didn't question his desire to check on Neal. Especially after last night.

Of course, Peter would feel responsible—because he was Peter. She knew he'd already called the hospital this morning and gotten an update on Neal, that all was well, but Neal had been asleep.

This was good. Peter could assuage his lingering concerns about Neal. And, if she was with Peter at the office, there'd be less chance of his overdoing it.

With that out of the way, she decided it was time to deal with the giant elephant in the room. To have the little talk she'd been rehearsing in her mind since . . . well, she'd started around 2:30 a.m. and then continued after she'd woken up this morning. Because she knew Peter, she was well aware that there would never be a truly _good _time for this discussion . . . but now was as good a time as any.

Elizabeth sipped her coffee, watching him over the rim of her cup. And kept watching him. The silence stretched out, but Peter, preoccupied, didn't notice at first. When he eventually caught on to the fact that he was being observed, he was in the middle of a bite of his eggs. Peter stared at her for a moment, eyes narrowing, before putting down the fork.

_Finally._

"So," she said, smiling at him gently, "I was hoping we could talk. About last night."

He hesitated, just for an instant—which she noticed only because she was watching him so closely—and then responded with a weak smile of his own. "Yeah. Right. Honey, I—I'm really . . . sorry about that."

Elizabeth sighed inwardly. Sometimes Peter could be so predictable.

"This is not about you needing to apologize to me," she said, her voice even. "This isn't about _me_ at all. This is about you being okay."

His eyes held just the slightest hint of defiance. "I'm fi—"

Again, completely predictable. She was ready and didn't even let him finish. "Of course, you're fine. Were you _fine_ last night, too? Is that what that was?"

He looked away, then. "That was just . . . a bad dream."

She laughed, and the uncharacteristic note of bitterness in it brought his gaze back to her face. Now he looked stricken.

"Yes, Peter, it was. Actually, it was _two_ bad dreams. And I know that because I saw them. And . . . heard them."

Elizabeth looked at his bruised, swollen face, at his guilty expression, and thought her heart might burst. She had the sudden urge to kiss him.

"I wish you hadn't seen it," he muttered. "Or heard it."

Now Elizabeth wondered how it could be possible to have such a strong desire to kiss her husband and shake some sense into him—at the very same time.

She exhaled, trying to think patient thoughts. Getting upset wouldn't make Peter any more tractable. No, it would only make him feel more guilty—and she really didn't want to go that route. Unless she had no other options, that is. "Again," she said calmly, "this is not about me. I'm worried about _you_, Peter."

He nodded, a slow, careful nod. _A placating nod, _she couldn't help thinking_._

"I know you're worried," he said, then hesitated briefly before resuming. "Look, El, yesterday was . . . a rough day. Things like that can stay with you, especially right afterward. But it'll get better. I _will _be okay. I promise you that."

It all sounded good. It made sense. Peter sounded completely sincere. He meant it, she was sure.

But it wasn't enough. Not today. Not after what she'd seen - and heard - last night.

"How do you know that?"

His expression changed as she asked the question, and at that moment—only for an instant—she saw it. Just the tiniest flicker across his face before it was gone. She was perhaps the only person in the world who would have noticed, but she knew Peter too well to miss it.

Doubt.

"Because . . . I just do," he insisted. His voice was firm and authoritative; anyone would have been convinced by it. Anyone except her, maybe. "It won't happen again."

Elizabeth studied him, getting her thoughts in order. Trying to remember everything that had raced through her mind last night as she lay in bed, heartsick with worry over Peter.

"You told me some of what happened yesterday, Peter," she said, after a pause. "I think that maybe . . . it helped you to talk about it. And it helped me, too, even though I know you worry, but for me, it's better to know than to wonder." She bit her lip. "I'm glad you could share it with me."

_don't I always share?_

Peter blinked and swallowed, mentally pushing the voice away. He knew Elizabeth, observing him keenly, had caught it—except that, of course, she thought he was reacting to her words.

She didn't know—_how could she?_—that he was hearing goddamned _voices_ _in his head_.

"But I also know," she continued, "that there are things you couldn't . . . tell me about. And that's okay. I understand. I just think that maybe, if you can't tell me . . . that maybe it would help if you found someone who you _could_ tell."

For a minute, Peter thought she was going to suggest Neal, but then it hit him what she was getting at. "A shrink."

She sighed. "A _professional. _A counselor. I know the Bureau has people, because you've talked to them before."

He had—when he'd been required to. But never of his own volition.

"It goes against your grain, I know," she said softly. "You don't want to admit that you might need help, and you hate talking about your feelings. I get all that."

She reached out and took his hand in hers. "But if it saves you from having more nights like last night . . . it would be worth it, Peter. It would. You went through a trauma yesterday. Please stop pretending that it was nothing. I—I can't even imagine what it would be like to be in that position."

_oh, i do like you in this position, Neal. _

_Christ, _Peter thought, a little wildly, _that hadn't even happened. That wasn't real; that was from his dream._

He took a deep breath, giving himself a moment. "I—I really doubt that would help."

She tilted her head to the side and gave him a patient look. "But could it _hurt_?"

He managed a faint smile. "Probably not."

Elizabeth got up and walked behind him. She put her hands on his shoulders and bent down to hug him from behind, as she liked to do. He let his eyes fall shut, leaning back into her touch.

Her voice was dismayed as her hands found and then began to work out knots in his shoulders. "Oh, honey, your shoulders feel so stiff."

_you're so tense, Neal. I can feel it everywhere. In every muscle. Let me try to help._

_Regal's hands, on Neal's shoulders, his neck, his chest . . . touching him everywhere . . . ._

_That hadn't happened, either. _Peter's eyes flew open. _Wait, some of it had._

_What the hell does it matter? This wasn't Regal touching him. It was El._

_Jesus. _

"Sweetie, are you—does this hurt?" she asked anxiously. The worry in her tone broke the spell. "Do you want me to stop?"

Peter breathed deep, tried to relax. "No," he managed. "No, it feels . . . good."

Hatred welled up inside him, then. Hatred of Regal—and of himself, for lying to Elizabeth. He was glad she was behind him, so she couldn't see his expression.

_you should __see__ the look on your face right now, Agent Burke . . . ._

Her touch was light and delicate. And yet still he'd had a horrible, momentary urge to shrug her off, to physically push her hands away, and it sickened him. Sickened him that he had to work so hard to fight it.

_do you think she'd enjoy that? Or would she fight back? _

_yes, I imagine she would fight. All the better. _

He squeezed his eyes shut to force the thoughts away, _Stop it. Concentrate. This is Elizabeth. _

"—when it comes to your work, I only express an opinion if you ask me to," she was saying. "And I would never try to tell you what to do. You know that."

She let him go and sat down so she could see his face; quickly he opened his eyes and tried to smile. Then she reached out and took his hand again. "But I'm just . . . asking that you think about it. That's all. Don't dismiss it." She made a frustrated little gesture with her right hand. "Just please . . . consider it."

Peter looked down at their joined hands without answering. She rubbed her fingers over his.

_can you even feel this, Agent Burke? I could break one of your fingers— _

"Will you do that—for me?" she pressed. After a little silence, she continued, "Honey, what is it? You look . . . upset."

He smiled at her, then. _Get a goddamned grip on yourself, Peter. _

"Sorry, El. I'm just a little . . . distracted. Of course I'll think about it. For you, of course."

His reward was a relieved nod. "I appreciate that. And you know I'm patient, but—"

_is she a patient woman, your wife? Or is that another thing I'd have to teach her?_

"—too long, because I hate the thought of you awake at night."

Releasing his hand, she got up to take the breakfast dishes to the kitchen sink, stopping to kiss him on the way.

While El was busy cleaning up—she'd told him in no uncertain terms that he was not permitted to help—Peter sat there, unmoving. Then hastily, he pushed the eggs aside. At least he'd eaten enough to satisfy Elizabeth. As for himself, he'd been hungry a few moments ago, but now his appetite had vanished. Catching sight of his laptop, he managed to get it open and booted it up, as much to give himself something to do as anything. He didn't want Elizabeth to see him staring into space, like some lost soul.

The clink of the breakfast dishes, the sound of the water running in the sink was reassuring in the background as he stared silently at the computer screen. Staring at it, and yet not really seeing it.

_What the hell was happening to him?_

El's voice jarred him out of his reverie. With a growing sense of unease, Peter realized that he had no idea how long he'd been sitting there. Fortunately, she didn't appear to have noticed.

"Hon, I'm going upstairs to finish getting ready. Do you need anything?"

"No. No, I'm good," he said quickly. "Think I'll just stay down here."

"Okay. Call me if you need anything. And leave your dishes there when you're done. I'll get them later."

"Yes. ma'am," he said, deliberately keeping it light.

She came by to give him another quick peck, and he was careful to smile broadly at her, to make sure no trace of his disquiet showed on his face. When she was gone, he closed his eyes, more shaken than he wanted to admit.

This was . . . not like him. He'd been an agent for twelve years, and he'd been in his share of stressful situations. He'd seen some gruesome, disturbing things, things that would keep plenty of people up at night. And even though he'd spent most of his time in White Collar, he'd been in danger before, had had his life threatened before.

Despite all of that, Peter had never had nightmares like he'd experienced last night. And while those were bad enough, having to deal with a perpetrator's voice, echoing endlessly in his head during his waking hours—that was even worse.

The voice . . . it was as if Regal were assaulting him all over again.

And really, even though Peter's initial thought was that he couldn't understand why he was having this reaction, the truth was that he knew.

As an FBI agent, you recognized the possibility that you could be hurt or killed on the job. The risk was small, but it was there. You accepted it from the first day, or you found another career. And Peter had accepted it.

What you couldn't accept, what you could _never _accept, was the idea that the people you cared about could be subject to the same risks.

That was the crux of the problem, Peter knew. He could handle threats to himself. But threats to Neal, to Elizabeth - those were guaranteed to ratchet his anxiety up to a whole other level.

And Regal, the bastard, had known that. He'd played on it.

Now even Peter's mind was joining in, using his worst fears against him in his own dreams. And causing him to obsess, yet again, about how narrowly they'd escaped—by the slimmest of margins, really—any number of nightmare scenarios. Peter had cataloged every one of them when he'd been handcuffed in the warehouse, with nothing to do but think, and now they began to run through his mind again, as if on an endless loop.

What if Neal hadn't woken up in the first place? What if he hadn't caught Regal at just the right angle when he rushed at him? What if he hadn't head-butted Regal into unconsciousness?

What if Regal had come to sooner?

What if Neal had passed out before he'd gotten outside? Or if he hadn't found someone like Darryl to help him? What if Neal had been killed when he'd run out into traffic?

Peter swallowed convulsively.

What if Regal's crew had arrived?

What if Neal hadn't been able to climb the shelves? To leave the key for him?

What if Peter hadn't been able to unlock the cuffs? What if Regal had shot him first?

What if Neal hadn't been able to convince Regal that he'd come over to his side?

_Enough, _he told himself staunchly._ None of those things happened.  
_

_But they could have, _a voice answered—a treacherous little whisper emanating from some shadowy corner of his mind. He wished he could stop it, but he couldn't.

_Any of those things could have happened—so easily. And if they had, you know what would have come next._

_You saw it in your nightmares._

Peter suppressed a shiver.

It wasn't just that he'd had the dreams. It was how vivid, how _real_ they'd been, down to the smallest detail. And the fact that the dreams had been even worse, even more graphic than the reality (which had been horrible enough). That Peter's own mind could conceive of those things and serve them up to him when he was asleep and defenseless—it was frightening.

_But, _he thought, _what is a nightmare, but your worst fears, come to life? _ If there had been any doubt about what had scared him most yesterday, his subconscious mind had made it all too clear: Regal hurting Neal to punish Peter. Neal begging his partner for help that he couldn't give. Regal's associates arriving. Regal taking Elizabeth.

With Peter helpless, forced to watch it all happen.

Elizabeth didn't even know about the third dream. It had been less graphic, but disturbing all the same. In that one, Neal had betrayed him—not pretending to, but doing it for real. In that dream, after Regal had woken up, after Neal had climbed down from the shelves, Regal had asked him, _How were you going to free Agent Burke?_

_Peter was stretching his fingers around on the shelf, reaching out as far as he could, desperately feeling for the handcuff key. Where was it?_

_Then, listening as Neal said, "Well, I was either going to use these"—he took out the lock picks—"or this."_

_He'd opened his palm to reveal the key to Peter's cuffs, smiling a false apology at Peter as he did so. _

_Peter had stared, numb with shock, as Neal said insolently, "Poor Peter. You look disappointed. Did you really think it would last?" He shook his head in disbelief, then turned to Regal. "We need to go. Before the FBI gets here." _

_Regal smiled. "Not yet. We have to take care of Agent Burke first."_

"_Fine. Do it."_

"_You don't have an issue?" Regal asked, his voice challenging._

_Neal shrugged. "Not my preference, but you're the boss. If you're going to do it though, make it quick. The clock's ticking."_

"_I think your handler was expecting a bit more . . . loyalty from you." _

"_His mistake." Neal surveyed Peter; his eyes were cold, but he had an amused look on his face. For Peter, it was like looking at the face of a stranger, and it filled him with horror. "I know him. He'll never stop chasing me. By this time, I think it's all he knows how to do." _

"_Very well," Regal replied, satisfied. He walked over to Peter. "I only wish we weren't so rushed, Agent Burke. In a perfect world, I would have been able to take much more time with you."_

_Neal turned and walked away. He didn't look back._

_Regal smiled maliciously, raising his weapon. Peter found that, suddenly, he couldn't breathe. He was suffocating. He thought of Elizabeth, only of Elizabeth, as Regal placed the barrel of the gun against Peter's temple, as he waited for the sound of the shot that would end his life. No, he thought. You won't hear it. You'll be dead first._

Then he'd woken up, drenched in cold sweat, his heart racing.

The only good thing was that, at least that time, he hadn't woken Elizabeth.

* * *

Peter sat there a while longer, alone at his kitchen table, staring at the blank screen of the laptop. Thinking about the dreams. About what El had said. what Hughes had said. About the echoing in his head.

_About the fact that when his wife had touched him, his first thought was of the touch of a goddamned fucking psycho._

Satchmo, as if sensing his distress, came over and nosed at his leg.

"Hey, Satch," Peter said roughly, waving his free hand. "C'mere, I can't reach you over there," Satchmo obliged, walking around to Peter's left and sitting down. Peter rubbed the soft fur while he tried to focus his mind. The room was quiet except for the rhythmic thumping of Satch's tail as he enjoyed the attention.

Glancing at the plate with the remnants of his now-cold eggs made Peter's stomach churn; he wasn't sure why. Instead, he looked out the window, at the bright sunlight streaming in from outside. It was a beautiful day; a warm, peaceful day.

A normal day. That was good. Normal was just what he needed right now.

He took a bite of toast, but it stuck unpleasantly in his throat, almost as if he were choking on it.

_he grabbed you by the throat and choked you, Neal._

_Stop it, _he lectured himself sternly. _This is ridiculous._

_You'll be fine_. _Of course you will. _

He would be okay; he always had been. Just like he'd told Elizabeth. He had years of experience in dealing with high-pressure situations; he'd had hours and hours of training in how to handle all kinds of crises. Last night had been an aberration. _All of this _was an aberration. Things would get back to normal.

_Will they? _

It was that unpleasant whisper in his mind, again. The one he'd tried to banish—and failed.

_When El touches you, and you want her to stop—because you see . . . his hands instead of hers . . . ._

_When your brain conjures up terrifying images of your partner being tortured, of your wife being kidnapped—images so realistic that you wake up screaming . . . ._

_That is the furthest goddamned thing in the world from _normal_._

Long moments later, he gave Satchmo a final pat and woke up the computer so he could log on to the FBI intranet. One-handed, it took a while. The truth was, that, one-handed, _everything _took a while.

Since El wasn't there to scold him for working, he took advantage of the opportunity to scan his emails. He browsed through the subject lines, mind only half-engaged, as he looked automatically for anything important. But his inbox consisted mostly of non-critical case updates, reminders about performance evaluations, a question about an upcoming budget meeting, and, already, a couple of get-well wishes that he read first—those, at least, made him smile. Peter would have welcomed the chance to dig into something substantive, that could distract him from thinking about . . . all the things he didn't want to think about. But there was nothing that fit that category, nothing that required his attention. It took him less than two minutes to skim the contents of his inbox.

Peter contemplated some more.

Then he navigated to the Bureau's Employee Assistance Unit page and read up on their services. After that, he returned to his email account and composed a brief message to the EAU—brief, because typing with one hand was a major pain in the ass. (And also because he wasn't going to pour out all of his problems in a goddamned email.) When he was done, Peter saved the email in his drafts folder.

He didn't send it. Not yet. He wanted to think about it a little while longer. This afternoon, when he went to the office, he could send it. Or call them. Or even just stop by; according to their web page, they always had someone available to talk. In confidence.

Yes, he'd think about it. Because, after all, he'd made a promise. And his wife—just like his agents—really was damn smart.

* * *

Very slowly, Neal was waking up.

The world seemed indistinct and disjointed. He felt oddly disconnected from his body at first, but then the pain began to register as he came back to himself, back to reality.

_What had happened? Where was he? _

_Hospital, _his mind supplied the answer to the second question first, as he blinked his eyes while his blurry vision cleared. The bright lights, nondescript white walls, frowny-face poster explaining how to communicate your levels of pain, the board on the wall announcing today's nurse as Wendy and patient care aide as Ryan—those could mean only one thing: hospital.

He already knew that, though; he'd woken up earlier and talked to the nurse. _Why was it so hard to remember? . . . last night the nurse had been a he, though, not a Wendy, he was pretty sure he was remembering that right . . . ._

_Wait. Why are you in the hospital?_

Bits and pieces began coming back, rapid-fire. _Peter driving like a maniac. Kidding Peter about yuzu. Peter, for some odd reason, fixating on his hat. The warehouse. Pain. Regal. Peter, gun at the ready, white-faced with fear. His hands bound behind him, struggling to get free. _That thought made him glance sharply down at his wrists and realize they were heavily wrapped. _They'd been bloody, when he'd had cut the restraints—no, not him. Who? Darryl, it was Darryl who'd cut them. Right before he'd gone back for—_

_Peter._

He glanced quickly around the room, just to be sure. No Peter.

_Where is Peter?_

He was okay. Wasn't he?

_Regal was going to kill him._

No, Peter was fine.

_I wasn't going to put a bullet in _your_ head, Neal. _

Neal shuddered, choking back a rising, irrational wave of panic. He grabbed for the pitcher of water on the tray, dimly conscious of the fact that his hand was shaking ever so slightly as he poured.

Regal's voice kept echoing in his mind. _It won't be over. Not until he's dead._

He gulped down the cup of water, spilling some in his haste to get the liquid in his mouth, down his throat.

_Regal, pressing the gun against Peter's head. _

_No._

Involuntarily, he closed his eyes at the memory.

For Neal, hiding his emotions had always been easy. It was second nature to him. He had honed his abilities to the point that he didn't have to work at it; in fact, he didn't even have to _think _about it. He could just do it—automatically.

But it had taken everything he had not to react when Regal had hit Peter. When he'd threatened to kill Peter.

Pretending initially that he'd gone over to Regal's side—that hadn't been so difficult. Neal was accustomed to bluffing, to playing roles, and he was expert at judging just far to go to convince a mark of his sincerity. He was confident that he could play Regal, as he'd tried to silently convey to Peter when he'd winked at him—and then left him the handcuff key.

For Neal, the most challenging aspect of the scenario, at least initially, wasn't Regal. It was that _Peter_ was right there the whole time.

One truth Neal had to reluctantly accept during his FBI tenure was that his normal facility at lying was severely compromised around Peter. Neal wasn't quite sure how, or why, but the agent could see through him like very few others ever could. As a result, Neal had mostly given up trying to deceive Peter, which meant he was out of practice.

No, the tricky part of the charade wasn't persuading Regal that Neal would consider working with him. It was managing to believably assert that he'd betrayed Peter. That he'd been using Peter all along. _That,_ he'd had to work at. He'd had to look _through_ Peter rather than at him. He'd had to quickly create a construct in his mind that Peter was someone else entirely (more like what Regal had described): a vicious, soulless tyrant who forced Neal to work for him, who cared nothing about him, who coldly used Neal for his own ends. He'd actually gotten a bit caught up in that imaginary scenario, when he'd hit Peter. That hadn't been part of any plan—that had been spontaneous and . . . excessive, and just thinking about it made Neal blanch.

But when Regal had hit Peter, and hurt Peter, and then progressed to the need to _kill_ Peter—as Neal had known inevitably that he would—playing it cool had been one of the hardest things Neal had ever done. Knowing it was coming hadn't made it any easier.

They'd reached the critical moment of the whole situation, where everything came down to Neal. Getting the key to Peter had been a key component of his on-the-fly plan, of course, and making some headway in convincing Regal had been important, too. But all of it would be pointless if Peter didn't have the chance to free himself. Neal knew, from personal experience with restraints, how difficult it was going to be for Peter to get the key and unlock the cuffs, given how numb his hands had to be. _If he could do it all_—which was something Neal had refused to let himself even consider.

_Of course, Peter would do it._ The alternative was too alarming to contemplate.

To free himself, then, Peter would need some time. And it had to be with Regal distracted—preferably nowhere nearby.

And, of course, Neal had to make sure that Regal didn't kill Peter first, because the handcuff key wouldn't be of any help in that event.

So when Regal had begun that chilling discussion about _severing the partnership, _Neal had had only one thought. _Get him away from Peter. Now. You have to get him away from Peter._

Turning his back and walking away at that moment had been a calculated risk. His instincts told him it was the right thing to do, but if he'd guessed wrong, the consequences would be disastrous. Because he'd be too far away to help Peter. He'd swallowed his fear and turned on his heel, making a show of his nonchalance, willing Regal to follow him, to leave the agent.

As he'd limped away, he'd realized that Regal wasn't with him. _Damnit. _He could hear him back there, murmuring indistinctly to Peter. _Taunting him, probably,_ Neal had thought. That was when he'd turned around to look, gritting his teeth at the pain in his shoulder, and had frozen in place, feeling as if his heart had stuttered to a stop, as if all the blood had stopped pumping.

Regal was right next to Peter. Regal had the gun pressed to Peter's head.

_Shit. Oh, shit. He's not waiting. He's going to shoot him _right fucking now.

_While you're standing here, congratulating yourself on acting blasé, Regal is going to kill Peter and there's not a goddamned thing you can do about it._

Reliving the terror of that moment made him shiver. The consuming fear that he'd overplayed his hand, that he'd made the worst mistake of his life. Because it was going to cost him Peter.

He'd called to Regal then, in despair, because he had to do something, because he'd never, ever forgive himself if he just stood there and _let it happen_. He'd needed every ounce of artifice he could marshal to maintain his composure, to hide his panic, so nothing showed on his face or in his voice, and thank God, Regal had responded. The rush of emotion when the bastard had finally left Peter and turned away had left Neal weak in the knees. It was part of why he'd ended up the floor moments later—_a small detail he hadn't shared with Peter…._

Neal concentrated, trying to piece together his jumbled memories of what had come next, seeking the proof he needed that Peter was really okay.

_Walking as far away as he could manage, trying to draw Regal out of sight of Peter, as far away as possible. Sharp pain knifing through his ankle as he dragged himself along. Knowing that every second he prolonged this was a small victory, because it was another second of time for Peter to use. Hoping Peter could work quickly on unlocking the cuffs, because the more Neal moved, the more he knew he was dangerously close to collapse. _

_Regal, right behind him, grinning broadly and then moving to stand in front of him, very close. 'I'm so glad you're with me, Neal,' he'd said, clapping him on the shoulder. His bad shoulder, and Neal could tell as the man's smile turned cruel that Regal knew that, the bastard _knew_ he was hurting him, and Neal had had to clench his teeth to keep from crying out in pain. _

_Feeling his knees go weak and seeing the world starting to spin again. Realizing desperately, angrily, that he was fading, that his body was betraying him. There was nothing more he could do; it was all up to Peter now. Grabbing onto the shelves behind him and finally sliding to the ground, powerless to stop it. Regal, standing by and watching it happen, lips curled into that ruthless smile as he loomed over Neal. Neal staring up into those cold black eyes, knowing he should be afraid of what Regal would do to him, but feeling only relief. Because Peter was safe for the moment, because at least he'd given Peter some time to free himself and save them both. _

_But had he done enough? Had he bought enough time for Peter?  
_

_Regal's voice, talking to someone, low and suggestive. His chest filling with fear that Regal's accomplices had arrived, then relief as he realized that, instead, Regal was talking on the phone. Regal leaning in close; Neal's eyes were closed, but he could feel the man right next to him. Trying to push back the pain, to stay awake because his greatest terror was coming to and finding Peter already dead. Blacking out briefly and waking up to the sound of a gunshot._

_Opening his eyes to see Regal turning to fire at Peter. Throwing himself at the man in sheer desperation. White-hot pain in his shoulder, spreading everywhere, overwhelming him with a flood of sheer agony, and the world going dark again. Coming back to himself and seeing Peter's face, filled with relief. Peter, his arm covered in blood, holding tightly to a photo of Elizabeth and looking stricken. Hearing the sound of footsteps and seeing Peter place himself between Neal and danger. Dragging himself to his feet, because he didn't want Peter to face it alone. Feeling relief at seeing Darryl again. Peter, trying to boss around the EMTs even as he was about to pass out. _

_Peter being . . . Peter._

_I'm telling you, Neal, Peter's fine. _That had been Elizabeth, reassuring him. _ Not the Elizabeth in the picture, but Elizabeth for real, smiling down at him._

_Peter, smiling at him, arm encased in a sling (just like Neal's)._

_You really do evil pretty well. _

He relaxed, opened his eyes again. _ Peter was okay. He was. He is._

_And he has better things to do than sit at your bedside waiting for you to wake up. Peter had probably gone home—lucky him. While you're stuck here . . . ._

To take his mind off nagging concerns about Peter, Neal began to take stock of his own injuries. So many different parts of him hurt, not fiercely, because he was clearly on some heavy medication, but he could feel it just the same.

His hand went to his throat, and he winced, swallowing painfully.

"Good morning! And how are you feeling, Mr. Caffrey?" A pretty, dark-haired nurse had come out of nowhere and was standing next to his bed. "I'm Wendy, I just came on a little while ago."

Embarrassed at being caught out, he quickly lowered his hand, cleared his throat and reached for the pitcher of water on the tray. "Not too bad. And please call me Neal." His voice was terribly hoarse. He took another long drink.

Wendy smiled at him as she asked questions, apparently aimed at determining whether he still had his faculties. Neal thought he answered them reasonably well—he wasn't quite as sharp as normal, but he was at least much more coherent than he'd been yesterday. She also took his vital signs and told him breakfast was coming.

The best bit of news she had was that the doctor would be in later and that there was a possibility that he could be released today (although the way she stressed the word _possibility _was not encouraging). That was okay, though. He was an optimist, and he'd seize whatever shred of hope was offered, however faint it might be.

"What do you think about getting up and out of bed?" she asked, studying him closely.

_I think it's going to be agony, _his mind said.

"I think it's a great idea," he said, instantly and cheerily (he was, at heart, a con artist, after all). _They're not going to even consider letting you out today if you're not up and walking around. _"Can I use the bathroom?" He'd used a bedpan last night and was really hoping not to have to repeat that experience.

"Let's see how you feel." She flipped back the bedcovers and helped him up.

Getting out of bed felt like it took hours, and it was every bit as bad as he'd feared it would be. He had to go very slowly. Movement seemed to wake up the pain that was hovering around the edge of his consciousness, bringing it to life in sharp, random spikes that threatened to take his breath away, that made it hard to hide.

It was a struggle, but he finally got himself into a sitting position on the side of the bed, realizing that just being upright was making him dizzy. Frustrated by his own weakness, he had no choice but to stay there, taking a few deep breaths, as he tried to get his bearings and waited for the sensation to pass. When he felt like he could do so without falling over, he stood up.

Wendy frowned as she helped him get his feet under him. Watching her, Neal couldn't help feeling, uneasily, like he was failing some kind of test.

She had another hospital gown ready to serve as a robe, helping him get it draped over his back and shoulders so he wasn't quite so exposed. He appreciated the gesture, since he'd had more than enough exposure yesterday. He remembered his loosened tie, his unbuttoned shirt . . . .

That made him wonder, suddenly, what had happened to his clothes. With all the bleeding and vomiting, he realized sadly, they must have been ruined. Too bad; that tie had been one of his favorites. And, yes, it was borderline irrational to be concerned about the loss of his clothes—given what he _could _have lost—but he couldn't help a tiny pang of regret that another little piece of Byron was gone forever.

When he was standing and (relatively) steady, he pasted the biggest smile on his face that he could manage, hoping she wouldn't see through it. Wendy had a cane ready for him—_damnit, he'd completely forgotten about the sprained ankle_—and assisted him with the first few steps as he shuffled like an old man to the bathroom.

Once there, he assured her he was okay to close the door. Finally alone, he set the cane aside and leaned against the sink, breathing hard and trying to ignore the dull throbbing in his shoulder, his ribs, his head, his ankle. Every movement hurt, but seeing his reflection in the mirror was a whole different kind of pain.

He was barely recognizable, even to himself. His face was puffy and bruised; his eye nearly swollen shut; his hair disheveled, part of it shaved. There was a large bandage running along his temple and a frighteningly long row of stitches stretching across his swollen, misshapen forehead.

_God, I look horrible. Scary_. He swallowed hard.

Elizabeth's words came back to him. _They're just bruises. And cuts. And stitches. They'll heal._

_They'd damn well better._

And the bruise on his throat was . . . disturbing. Maybe more than anything. It was the size of a hand . . . .

Then Peter's voice rang out in his head, frantic and desperate, as the memories came flooding back.

_You said your throat hurt. Do you know why?_

_Regal grabbed you by the throat and choked you, Neal. Repeatedly. He—he almost suffocated you._

Neal's mind shied away from the thought of Peter, having to watch that, powerless to stop it. It had been so much worse for Peter. He shook his head. _It's over now. No point in dwelling on it. _

Easy to say, but his brain had other ideas, because there was Peter's voice again, echoing in his head.

_He is a twisted, goddamned fucking __sick __bastard who gets off on hurting people. On hurting __you,__ Neal._

He pulled the hospital gown down to expose his chest, wincing at the sight of the marks there. The marks which Regal must have so carefully scratched into the flesh, when Neal had been blessedly unconscious.

_He wants to take you, and break you, and you have got to get the hell out of here right now so he doesn't get the chance . . . ._

So much of what Regal had done, Neal didn't remember. Which was fine with him. Some things he could infer because of how he felt and the marks he bore, and, of course, what Peter had said, how Peter had looked. The thing he remembered most clearly was Regal _frisking _him. Ostensibly looking for weapons, Regal had taken full advantage of the opportunity to touch every goddamned inch of Neal that he could reach, without an ounce of subtlety.

In terms of physical injury, the frisking was the very least of what Regal had done; it hadn't hurt at all. And yet . . . .

Staring bleakly into his own shadowed eyes in the mirror, Neal let himself remember, his body automatically tensing as he let the memories engulf him.

He'd been careful to keep his muscles relaxed, his posture loose and casual, like this was nothing, no big deal. _Frisk away, _he'd said lightly, even throwing in an eye roll for good measure. Then Regal had told him to face front and, instead of waiting, had placed his hand on Neal's head, applying enough pressure to make him do just that. The gesture hadn't been violent, or even rough—yet there was something menacing about it, all the same. Underneath the calm façade, Neal's pulse had begun to race as he realized what Regal really had in mind, as he was forced to stand there submissively, and just . . . take it.

_Forced to pretend that he wasn't, essentially, acquiescing to a kind of molestation, thinly disguised as a weapons search. _

He remembered resting his forehead against the boxes, grimacing at the pain that the pressure caused; his battered head felt ready to explode. He remembered gritting his teeth, trying not to think about what Regal was doing to him. He'd focused his energy on breathing evenly. He'd had to concentrate on standing there meekly, on not reacting, not flinching.

_On not driving his elbow back into the bastard's gut like he wanted to. _

And, _Jesus_, but he'd wanted to. He'd never experienced such a strong, visceral urge to hurt someone before—well, except for Fowler. But as badly as he wanted to resist, he knew that he couldn't. He was afraid that if he so much as twitched, that Regal would hurt Peter—_if you move, he bleeds,_ Regal had said. He was a man who reveled in inflicting pain; Neal couldn't afford to take that chance.

Thinking about it now, he closed his eyes again. He could still feel Regal's delicate touch; it had been nothing like the brief, impersonal pat-down of a true weapons search. No, Regal had _caressed_ him, carefully tracing the outlines of his arms, his legs, his body. Marking all the contours of Neal, almost as if he trying to _learn_ them, somehow. The man's hands had roamed everywhere, slowly, so slowly, and Neal had known he was prolonging it because he _could_, because the fucker was enjoying it, was relishing Neal's helplessness, was probably getting off on it, for Chrissake.

Then at the end, after Regal had methodically explored seemingly every inch of him, he'd felt the warmth of Regal's hand, left to linger too long on the bare skin of his neck, fingers curling ever so slightly around Neal's throat from behind. A possessive, controlling gesture that had sent tingling chills down his spine—even as the heat of the touch seemed to sear his skin like a goddamned brand . . . .

In that moment, which stretched on as if it might never end, Neal had, finally, been unable to control himself. His muscles jerked, ever so slightly, in spite of himself, and then, to his horror, Regal reacted as well. Neal felt those fingers, resting on the back of his neck, quiver with excitement, as if an electric shock had coursed through Regal when he sensed that Neal was responding to him, even in the smallest of ways. Like he'd sensed Neal's fear and was thrilled by it.

_Was feeding off it._

That was when Neal's seething rage had begun to mingle with a sense of dread.

It wasn't that Peter's dire warnings about Regal hadn't made an impression; they had, even though his mind had been foggy at the time. But Neal had been too worried about other things—namely, Peter, and the very real possibility that Regal could wake up at any moment and decide to blow the agent's head off. He'd been so intent on Peter that the danger to himself had been secondary.

Almost from the moment Regal woke up and ordered him to climb down, Neal's mind had been busily, confidently planning a strategy to use against him. Despite the precariousness of their situation, he couldn't help the momentary rush of excitement that always came over him when things didn't go according to plan and he got to improvise. Peter had seen it (and been horrified by it, judging by the alarmed look he'd shot Neal's way). Neal couldn't help it, though; that was just the way his mind worked. It was a reflex with him, albeit not one that he expected Peter to ever quite understand.

But a few moments later, as Regal stroked his body, invading him everywhere, as he, finally, couldn't help stiffening involuntarily at the light but palpable pressure around his throat, as he felt the unmistakable heat of Regal's fingers trailing excitedly along his skin, Neal's confidence had begun to drain away. His strategizing had ground slowly to a halt as he felt the first vestiges of real terror.

Peter's words hit home, then. _Personal criminal plaything, he'd said. _

_If you don't get out before Regal wakes up or his accomplices get here, you're in for a forced career as the newest trinket in his collection._

It was then that Neal knew that he was swimming in deeper waters than he'd realized—and that he might be in over his head. To Regal, he was prey—and already caught in the trap.

He realized, then, that what Regal was doing to him in that moment was nothing compared to what the twisted bastard _wanted _to do. No, this was just a taste of what was to come.

Neal blinked his eyes open to stare at his reflection again. _Okay. That was the worst part, and you got through it, and it's over. Don't think about it again._

He heard Regal's voice, from earlier, talking to Peter. It jolted him, because he hadn't remembered it—until now.

Regal had been mulling over the possibility of kidnapping Peter, of beating him, of _pulling out his fingernails, for God's sake_ . . . Neal shook his head—_how could he have forgotten that?_

_If I had you in my possession, Regal had mused, I might be able to control Neal much more easily. Without ever laying a hand on him. Not that I won't be laying hands on him anyway, but that would be in quite a different context. _

Neal took a deep breath. _What a fucking bastard._

Neal wasn't stupid. He wasn't born yesterday. He was more than capable of putting two and two together to come up with four.

_Or maybe, given how tight-lipped Peter had been, it was more like putting together two and . . . one-and-a-half._

Either way, Neal understood that Regal had planned to use him for more than just the production of top-notch forgeries.

_He would have forced you to—_

_No. _He swallowed hard. He wouldn't let his mind travel down that path. He wouldn't.

And what would be the point, anyway? It was over. Regal was in custody and Neal was fine—well, not quite fine—but he was _safe_ and that was the only thing that mattered.

Seeing himself—and reliving some of his memories from yesterday—had convinced him of one thing: the next time he saw Peter—whenever that was—he sure as hell wasn't going to bring up what had happened in the warehouse. And more importantly, what _might_ have happened. If Peter did, that was one thing. But judging from what Neal had seen (and what he knew of Peter), he'd be no more anxious to talk about it than Neal would . . . .

A light knock on the bathroom door brought him back to reality.

"Mr. Caffrey? Neal? Do you need any help?"

"No, no, I'm fine, thanks," he called back hastily. "Out in a minute."

_Time to get a move on, if you don't want her seeing you in the altogether._

His business taken care of, Neal opened the door to find the nurse hovering outside.

"Feeling okay?"

"Fantastic," Neal lied, smiling brightly.

He limped his way back to the bed, leaning heavily on the cane. Just as Wendy was helping him settle back under the covers, breakfast arrived. Neal ate the bland eggs and fruit cup gratefully; he hadn't realized he was hungry until actually seeing food. Eating with one hand was a challenge, one that he was going to have to get used to.

Not long after he finished, an aide came in with a little cup of pills. He wished he didn't need them, but couldn't deny that he was in some serious pain. He downed them all without a word of protest.

Everything was hurting, and sleeping seemed like a great way to escape that, at least temporarily.

He wasn't up to his usual escape methods, so sleeping would have to do. For now.

* * *

Waking up was marginally easier this time.

But this time, as he lay there with his eyes closed, Neal could sense someone was there, very near, watching him soundlessly. It wasn't Peter. He was pretty sure that he would have known Peter, even with his eyes closed.

Disoriented for a moment, Neal felt a surge of panic, but it faded almost immediately. He was safe, he reminded himself. He was in the hospital. Regal couldn't hurt him anymore.

Peter had taken care of that.

Neal considered the possibilities of who his silent observer could be, making a wager with himself. Then he dragged his eyes open—which seemed to take a depressing amount of effort—and mentally congratulated himself on being right.

"You've really got the whole 'staring at people until they wake up' thing down pat," he muttered.

"What? Oh." Diana's expression softened a little and she shook her head. She was seated in the chair next to his bed, looking uncomfortable.

"Is that like the double finger-point—do they teach that at Quantico?"

"Ha ha," she replied, faking a smile. "Guess I was hoping you'd wake up on your own so I wouldn't have to feel guilty about doing it."

_Well, that was probably a first—Diana feeling guilty about anything that involved him. _

"The last time I saw you," she hesitated, "you were . . . ."

"Unconscious?" Neal supplied.

"Yeah. And then I didn't have a chance to get back here yesterday—you know, I was busy with the wrap-up."

"Well, that's more important," Neal noted. He knew he should ask about the case, but somehow, he found he didn't want to. Regal was in custody, and really, that was all Neal cared about at the moment. Anyway, he trusted Peter to tell him whatever he needed to know. "All I've been doing is sleeping anyway."

"I bet you could use it. How are you feeling?"

"Better, thanks."

"That's good. Because—well, don't take this the wrong way, but I hope you feel better than you look."

He heaved a sigh; Diana didn't share Elizabeth's gift for tact. "I do. At least, I think I do."

She nodded but didn't answer right away.

"So, can we get this over with?" Neal smiled as he said it, and was careful to keep his tone light, so he didn't sound peeved. But as far as he was concerned, the sooner she said her piece, the better.

"Oh, yeah, sure," she answered quickly. "Now, which ankle did you sprain?"

He stared at her, baffled. "The left one. Why?"

Diana reached into her pocket and pulled out his anklet. "The hospital staff said it wouldn't be a problem, so I gotta put this back on your good leg."

"Oh. Okay." Not what he'd been expecting.

Of course, Diana noticed. As she came around the bed, he obligingly poked his foot out from under the covers where she could reach it. Easy enough to do—it was, after all, one of the few parts of his body that didn't hurt. "Why did you think I was here?" she inquired.

Neal was annoyed that he'd been wrong—and that Diana was onto him. He sighed. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me," she answered.

"I figured you came here to lecture me."

Diana focused on his ankle, very deliberately not meeting his gaze. She didn't respond right away, clicking the monitor in place around his leg. It was something she'd done countless times—usually in about two seconds. But today she seemed to be paying an inordinate amount of attention to it, as if she were performing some incredibly complex task that required intense concentration.

_Oh, _he realized belatedly. _She's stalling for time. _

Well, he wasn't in any particular hurry.

Finally she leaned back and looked at him. "I should lecture you," she said succinctly. Her voice was clipped. "I know I probably should. What you did was stupid and reckless, and you scared the hell out of me . . . but I can't."

He was about to ask the obligatory question of why, but Diana spoke first.

"I've never heard you so freaked out," Diana said quietly, then repeated, "It scared the hell out of me."

_Wow. Diana hated repeating herself._

"Yeah. I panicked," Neal said, distaste evident in his voice. "I was a little out of it, but I panicked and that's not something I do very often. Afterward, I . . . I realized I forgot to tell you that Regal had called someone, that he had people on the way. And I should have gotten something I could have used against him." He looked disgusted.

She shot him an annoyed look. "Stop being so hard on yourself. What you did . . ." her voice trailed off before she spoke again. "Well, you didn't do it for me. But . . . thank you."

He started to speak, but she held up a hand to cut him off. "And don't tell me I shouldn't thank you. Just because you were a hero yesterday doesn't mean you get to tell me what to do."

"Okay," he said, laughing for real and then grimacing because, _shit, laughing hurt_ _like a son of a bitch. _He stopped himself mid-chuckle; Diana looked alarmed, eyeing him for a few seconds.

"Peter's probably going to call to check up on you," she remarked.

Neal nodded. "He already did. A couple times, actually—but I was asleep. The nurses told me."

What the nurses had told him, in fact, was that the first time Agent Burke had called to check on him had been in the middle of the night—three o'clock in the morning, to be exact. Neal hadn't liked the sound of that one bit. Surely, after everything he'd endured yesterday, Peter had to be exhausted. The fact that he'd been awake at three in the morning, rather than sleeping, did not bode well.

"Do you ever think about how . . . strange all of this is?" Diana asked abruptly, forcing him back to the here and now.

The change of subject—not to mention her atypically chatty mood—caught him by surprise. When he looked a question at her, she explained, "You and Peter. I mean, he chased you for how long? Then he locked you up for four years. And now, here the two of you are . . . it's—it's bizarre."

There was an odd, almost rueful smile on Neal's face. "I used to think about it a lot," he admitted. "At the beginning." Neal sighed. "Mozzie, in particular, has had a hard time understanding it."

"I'll bet," she shot back. "Although Mozzie seems like the type to have a hard time understanding pretty much any normal human relationship."

Neal nodded. "Not his forte. Though, as you just pointed out, Peter and I aren't exactly . . . normal."

"No."

"But neither is Peter," Neal remarked. If she was going to be chatty, then, well, so would he. He welcomed the distraction. "I mean, you're an agent, you know the culture at the Bureau. How many of your colleagues would ever have even considered the deal I suggested to Peter, after he caught me the second time?"

Diana didn't have to think very long at all before she answered. "Probably none. Most agents wouldn't have even made the trip to prison to meet you."

"Exactly. Which is why it works. Peter is Peter, and at the risk of sounding clichéd, there's nobody else quite like him."

Neal paused. "You meet a lot of different types of people in prison. People who are crazy, or bad, or who have no self-control. You've got lots of people who insist the system screwed them. But there's a common thread, no matter who it is or why they're there—they really tend to hate the guy—or . . . _gal_," he inclined his head toward Diana—"who put them there."

"But you don't hate Peter."

Neal shook his head, smiling. "Well, as you know, Peter is . . . a really hard guy to hate. I've met a lot of FBI types since I started doing this, and I've seen very few who would have the . . . flexibility and the open-mindedness needed to make this arrangement work."

"What you meant to say, I think, is that there are very few who would put up with your crap," she snorted.

Neal's smile was indulgent. "That . . . is one way of putting it."

"I told Peter once," she said, reflecting, "that if I were in his place, I wouldn't put up with half the crap from you that he does."

"That, I don't doubt." He paused to study her and a little smirk spread across his face. "But, maybe, if you keep working on it, you'll develop the necessary _flexibility and open-mindedness _to . . . maximize your potential."

"I'll get right on that," she retorted dryly. Then her mood grew serious. "About yesterday . . . I'm just sorry we didn't get there sooner."

"Well, it did make things a little more stressful, not to mention painful," Neal said, grimacing slightly. "But it wasn't all bad. I did get the chance to polish up my people skills in a high-pressure situation."

Diana nodded. "_People_ _skills_, huh? That's what you call it? Peter said you actually had Regal believing you wanted to work with him."

"That might be stretching it a bit," Neal answered. "I wouldn't say he was completely convinced. And it helped that he was predisposed to buy it." He stopped and thought for a moment. "It was the obvious angle to play with him. I heard him talking to Peter, when I was coming to. He couldn't believe that someone like me could have any loyalty to a guy who _chased me for how long? And then locked me up for four years." _Parroting her words, he smiled at her.

She smiled back. "I hope you're not comparing me to that bastard."

"Never," he assured her solemnly.

"So he thought you would jump at the chance to get away," she said, understanding it now. "He thought you'd hate Peter."

"Most definitely," Neal agreed. "For all his perceived intelligence—" Neal frowned as he said it—"he wasn't enough of an out-of-the-box thinker to imagine another possibility. Except . . ." he hesitated.

"What?"

He cleared his throat. "He did talk, once, about kidnapping Peter, too—and hurting him to get me to cooperate."

She stared at him, shaking her head in disgust. "Jesus. That's . . . that's sick."

Neal let out a bitter, ugly laugh. "You have no idea. Just the tip of the iceberg."

Diana was silent. _Maybe she does have an idea,_ Neal thought. She'd seen his injuries, after all. He wondered how much Peter had told her—but that was not a topic he wanted to explore.

"I think Regal was just trying to screw with Peter's mind more than anything," he said finally, looking down and fiddling awkwardly with the blanket.

Deciding to steer the conversation back to safer ground, Diana commented, "Peter told me you gave Regal the key to your anklet. He was very nervous about that."

"Unavoidable," Neal admitted. "All part of the con on Regal. In fact, I _wanted _Peter to be upset—made it more convincing." He paused. "Guess it was a little rough on him, though."

"A _little_ _rough_?" Diana repeated, incredulous. "I think you nearly gave him a heart attack."

Neal sighed. "He worries too much; I keep telling him that. And speaking of nearly giving people heart attacks," he added, "pot, meet kettle. Because that's exactly what _you _did to poor Darryl."

She groaned. "Yeah, well, that was another thing you didn't tell me."

"I don't follow," Neal said, frowning.

Diana raised an eyebrow at him. "Think about it. You call me from an unknown number, rambling and frantic, barely making sense, obviously hurt and in trouble. Then suddenly we're cut off, and when I call back, there's no answer. The second time I call, a stranger picks up and you're gone. What was I supposed to think?"

"Oh," Neal said, feeling foolish that this hadn't occurred to him before. "You assumed Darryl was the bad guy."

"Hell, yeah," she shot back, with feeling. "I thought you'd escaped, but that whoever was after you had grabbed you again and—and taken the phone and . . . ." Her voice was strained.

Neal gave her a commiserating little nod. He'd been on the verge of coming clean about the fact that they'd been cut off only because he'd deliberately hung up on her. But the look on Diana's face was causing him to hastily rethink that strategy.

_Full disclosure had never really been his thing, anyway . . . . _

Diana continued. "So I threatened him, warned him not to hurt you, and demanded that he put you back on the phone. Of course, Darryl insisted he'd only been trying to help and that you'd gone back for Peter. I did come round to that eventually, but then I threatened him again to keep him from following you. I was afraid he'd get hurt."

"You made quite an impression," Neal informed her. "I hope you apologized, 'cause we owe him, big-time."

"I did—well, for part of it," she answered. "But I didn't get the chance to meet him; he left right before we got there."

"That's right," Neal said, remembering. "Well, we can fix that, anyway. I'm gonna host a thank-you dinner at June's for Darryl, his girlfriend, and her son. Peter and Elizabeth are coming and you should, too." He gave her a stern look. "As long you promise to be nice."

"I think I can manage that," Diana said, grinning. "And since you brought it up, you have to tell me about the truck."

"What about it?"

Diana shot him an exasperated look. "You got hit by Darryl's truck. Yet another thing you neglected to tell me about, by the way. Peter didn't have all the details, so spill."

"What do you want me to say?" He gave a mini-shrug, the most he could do without exacerbating the pain in his shoulder. "I needed to attract attention."

"So you ran out into traffic so you could get hit."

"Um, a little credit, please?" he said, looking just a tad annoyed. "I can assure you that the plan was for him to stop - so as to _avoid_ hitting me." Neal thought for a moment before admitting, "Well, it was more of a _hope _than a plan, I guess. And, hey, it worked. Mostly."

She shook her head at that and joked, "Have you _seen _yourself?"

Neal smiled wanly. "The truth is, I didn't know what else to do. There was no one to help, my hands were tied, and Peter was . . . he was running out of time." He glanced out the window.

"You could have been killed." Her tone wasn't accusing—just matter-of-fact.

"_Peter _could have been killed," Neal said simply. He looked back at her, and the raw emotion in his eyes made Diana's breath catch in her throat.

She stared at him, not knowing what else to say.

"I couldn't let that happen. Because Peter is . . ." he hesitated, searching for words in a way the ultra-glib, always-articulate Neal Caffrey never did. "He's . . ." Neal's voice died away.

"It's like you said earlier," Diana suggested, her tone unusually soft. "He's . . . he's a hard guy to hate."

Neal's smile was appreciative and heart-felt. "Exactly."

_TBC_

…_._

_A/N—The Neal/Diana scene was for devoted reader/reviewer/friend Devoregirl, because once she suggested it, I couldn't get it out of my head—thanks to her for that!_

_And thanks to everyone who's still reading, reviewing, and hanging in there patiently! Just one more chapter to go, I think . . . ._


	19. To See One Another Through

**Chapter 19 – To See One Another Through **

_**We are not put on this earth to see through one another, but to see one another through. **_

— Unknown

_[Note to readers: Contrary to my earlier prediction, this is not the last chapter. There will be one more after this one. Sorry for the miscalculation!]_

* * *

As he lay there, gradually coming awake once more—and realizing, yet again, that he was not alone—Neal couldn't help wondering whether he was in a hospital room or in Grand Central station.

Having worked mostly solo over the years—or in situations when your "partners" couldn't (or didn't) stick around to worry about your welfare—Neal wasn't particularly used to having people checking on him. Or caring about him. So it was kind of strange.

Not bad, certainly. Just . . . different.

So, who was it this time? Diana had left, he knew it wasn't Peter, and Mozzie was out of town.

Mozzie had called him earlier on the phone in his room, which was a pretty big concession for him. Neal knew, though Mozzie refrained from saying it out loud, that his friend probably thought Big Brother was listening in. Just _why _Big Brother would care about their utterly innocuous conversation was another question, but Neal didn't bother to ask. Because of course, Mozzie would have some ready explanation that would sound sane only to him. And Neal wasn't up to rebutting him at the moment.

Still, in deference to his friend's paranoid sensibilities, Neal had made sure to speak only in the most general of terms. He'd also been very careful not to ask where Mozzie was. Or what he was doing. Or when he'd be returning. Mozzie had told him (in code, naturally), that he'd be back in the city in three days, which was just as well. The delay would give Neal some time to heal, to look a little less . . . scary. At least, he fervently hoped so.

Because after seeing what Neal looked like, Mozzie would probably flip out about how working for the FBI was far more dangerous than anything Neal had done in his previous life, how all of this was the Feds' fault, how the Suit couldn't be trusted, et cetera, et cetera.

Neal didn't want to hear it and, more importantly, he didn't want Peter to hear it.

Pushing the fatigue away, he blinked his eyes open to see June reading the _Times_. When she noticed that Neal was awake, she looked pleased.

He started to speak and had to stop to clear his throat. "Hi, June," he croaked.

Now June was positively beaming at him; the effect was almost blinding. "Neal! It's so good to see you awake." She quickly reached over to pour him some water.

"It's good to _be _awake," he told her, reaching for and pressing the button to raise the bed up so he would feel like less of an invalid.

"I'm sure," she said softly. "And I'm not going to ask if you're all right. Because, clearly, you're not. So I'll only ask if you _will be _all right."

"Do you even have to ask?" he replied, with one of his insouciant smiles (even though he knew that the massive shiner he sported probably ruined the effect). "I always bounce back."

"That you do," June agreed. "And what exactly will you be bouncing back from?"

"Oh, you know," he sighed, waving a hand in the air and putting on his best hale-and-hearty manner. "Nothing life-threatening. Bumps and bruises, as you can see. Broken collarbone, a couple of cracked ribs, and a sprained ankle for good measure. Oh, and a concussion," he added belatedly. "Not a bad one, though."

June shook her head. "You always go to extremes."

"Can't help myself," he agreed dryly.

"When Elizabeth called yesterday," June said, her tone anxious, "I was beside myself. I wanted to come straight down, but she insisted there would be no point, that you weren't awake."

"I'm glad you didn't come." Neal paused to drink some more water, enjoying the cool feel of it on his dry throat. "A lot of yesterday, especially once I got here to the hospital, is kind of a blur."

June nodded and studied him for a long moment without speaking. Finally, she said, "Do you want to talk about it?"

No one else had asked him that. Not Peter or El yesterday, not Mozzie or Diana today.

He couldn't deny being taken aback by her directness. But he shouldn't have been; it was typical for June. She was not one to dance around an issue.

"Not really." He smiled, an easy smile meant to deflect. "It's over and done with."

"I'm sure," she said, smiling back. June wasn't so easy to divert, though. Her voice clearly indicated that she wasn't fooled—and really, why, would Neal have ever thought she would be? "Which leads me to the next question: do you _need _to talk about it?"

He looked right at her, because he knew that if he didn't, it would be a dead giveaway. Eye contact was always critical in these situations.

There was something incredibly disarming about June. Neal had noticed that, sometimes, he ended up telling her things he didn't tell anyone else. Even Peter. Or Mozzie. He'd learned, early on, that he could tell her just about anything, and she wouldn't judge him, or question him. And Neal didn't have to worry about putting her in a difficult position, the way he might with Peter.

Probably it was all those years with Byron, with whom Neal knew he must have a lot in common. June seemed to understand him, instinctively, in a way that very few people did. Neal was a man of many secrets, and June probably knew as many of them as anyone (not counting Mozzie). And the bizarre thing was that June wasn't one to pry. She just had a gift for drawing things out of you—almost like magic—without even appearing to try.

This seemed to be one of those times, Neal realized. He was pretty sure she was going to keep staring at him until he said something. A familiar technique, of course; he'd used it countless times. It was amazing how often people became unnerved by mere silence. Someone who would flat-out refuse to answer a direct question could spill all kinds of useful information—if you were patient, if you were willing to let the moment just . . . breathe a little.

June was a deft practitioner of the technique, as well, and she also had the advantage of a gaze that was positively piercing.

Neal knew he could stay quiet. He could give her an enigmatic, _I-really-don't-want-to-talk-about-it _smile, and that would be the end of it. June wouldn't push.

She deserved better than being shut out, though. And if Neal were honest, with himself, he'd admit that, deep down, a part of him wanted to talk about it, if only briefly. To voice the things he could never imagine saying to Mozzie.

_Or, God forbid, to Peter._

"I—I haven't been that scared in a very, very long time."

That those were the first words out of his mouth—that he'd just . . . _admit_ that—surprised even him. His voice was quiet—not a whisper, but pitched so low that June leaned forward a little, maybe straining to hear.

"And I hate being scared."

She didn't say anything, just looked at him. Concern was etched in every line of her face.

"I thought he was going to kill Peter."

"That must have been . . . horrible," June said, eyes now filled with compassion. "I know how important Peter is to you."

That made him glance at her sharply. Leave it to June to cut right to the heart of things. "Yeah," Neal said. "And I nearly got him killed."

June's brows drew together as she pursed her lips. "I don't know the whole story, but Elizabeth said you saved Peter's life."

He snorted. "Only after I put him in danger in the first place."

After Diana left, Neal had had more time to think. In fact, stuck alone in his hospital room, Neal had nothing to do _but _think. And the more he'd examined the events of yesterday in his mind, analyzing them from every angle, the more this had stood out as an obvious point. Frankly, he felt stupid for not realizing it before. For not recognizing how his own actions had contributed to the entire mess.

"How so?"

He appreciated that June didn't automatically try to argue him out of it, or dismiss what he was saying. Really, she was one of the best listeners he'd ever met.

"We went to the warehouse to execute a search warrant. I—I was complaining about why we had to do it." _Acting like a child, _he thought, feeling almost ashamed. "Then I got bored and wandered off on my own . . . ."

"And," June hesitated, "you—you were attacked?"

He nodded glumly.

"From behind?"

Neal nodded again.

"I think I must be missing something," June said in her usual measured tone. "How is that your fault?" Her manner and expression were polite—she wasn't challenging him, but rather asking a genuine question.

Exhaling slowly, Neal looked down at his left hand where it rested on the blanket. "If I hadn't gone off on my own, none of this would have happened."

Skepticism showed on June's face. "But—did Peter know that this man—I'm sorry, what was his name?"

"Regal," Neal supplied.

"Did Peter know that this . . . Regal would be there?"

"No."

"Are you saying . . . he should have known?"

"Definitely not," Neal said, a little indignant on Peter's behalf. "He even had agents watching the place, but somehow this guy got inside anyway."

June's expression had transformed from skepticism to honest confusion. "So what difference would it have made, Neal? I mean, if you had stayed with Peter, this man would have still taken you by surprise. You would have been together instead of separate, but the outcome would have been much the same, wouldn't it?"

Neal tilted his head to the side in an equivocating gesture, but he said nothing.

"Neither of you was expecting anyone to be there. If Peter couldn't have been known, surely you couldn't be expected to, Neal." June's voice was reasonable. "Sometimes bad things happen. It doesn't have to be anyone's fault."

"You're probably right," he said, hoping that would be the end of it.

But June had heard the doubt in his voice.

"Emotion makes it hard to be logical," she remarked, and now she had a regretful smile on her face, staring off in the distance like she was remembering something. "Especially when someone you care about is in danger. Once you get over the relief of knowing they're okay, all you can think about is—is how close they came to _not_ being okay. And about what you could have done differently. Everything else fades away in the face of that."

Watching her, Neal wanted, so much, to ask her how she knew, how she understood so exactly what he was feeling. But something about the look on her face, as she brought her eyes up to meet his, stopped him. Neal was reminded, in that instant, just how much of June's life he knew nothing about. If she wanted him to know, she'd tell him.

A ghost of a smile flitted across his face. "You're a wise woman, June."

"I've been there, Neal. And I'm sure Peter doesn't blame you any more than you blame him. Speaking of Peter, how is he?"

"A little beat up, but not bad enough to be admitted, fortunately." He halted, suddenly remembering the frantic note in Peter's voice—_he wants to hurt you, Neal, he already has_—and swallowed hard.

June was watching him intently.

"I think—I think the worst part for Peter might have been that Regal handcuffed him, and he had to watch while Regal . . . went after me." The words came out of his mouth in a rush. He realized that he hated saying them. Hated that she had to hear them.

He didn't expect the very un-June-like anger that flashed in her eyes. "What a son of a bitch."

Neal took a moment to reflect on the fact that even when June was calling someone a son of a bitch (which was probably about as strong a profanity as she would ever utter), she somehow still managed to make it sound ridiculously _elegant_.

_Only June . . . ._

"Is he dead?"

"What?" He looked at her, startled out of his reverie—and thrown by the question. "Uh, no."

"Hmph." June's face was grim, showing clearly that she found his answer less than satisfying. "And I'm sure you're right," she added. "For Peter, it was probably much worse."

"I think so," Neal assented. "Not that he wasn't hurt. His arm's a mess, and his face doesn't look much better than mine." He stopped, looking stricken. "And I hit him. I was trying to convince Regal that I'd turned on Peter, and I hit him, and . . . ."

"And you think Peter's going to hold that against you?"

"Of course not," Neal said, frustrated by the whole discussion. Frustrated with himself. Frustrated with everything, at the moment.

June looked thoughtful. "My understanding, Neal, is that the reason you look the way you do is because you gave yourself up for Peter."

Neal shrugged a little, with his good shoulder, not knowing what to say. This kind of talk made him uncomfortable. Just like earlier, when Diana had thrown the word _hero _around. Usually, he was the first one to boast about his accomplishments, but not today.

He didn't feel like a hero. He felt like a guy who'd acted out of sheer desperation and who'd gotten lucky. And ever since waking up this morning, he couldn't help obsessing about what he could have done differently . . . .

"You know what I've been thinking about?" he said abruptly. "Not yesterday, in the middle of it, but today. That if Peter—if he didn't make it, I don't know what would happen to me. And how selfish is that?"

Neal laughed bitterly, thinking of what Diana had said. "Maybe they'd send me back, because nobody else at the FBI would put up with me." He paused and stared at the wall. "And I can't help thinking that if they did send me back, that I'd deserve it. That maybe—"

"Neal." Even when June was interrupting you—something she hardly ever did—she was still unfailingly gracious. "Excuse me, Neal, but I really _must _stop you right there."

Neal looked over at her, silent.

"I understand," she said—and now he could hear the solicitousness, the indulgence, in her voice—"that you're in pain. You're not thinking as clearly as you normally would. And it's finally hitting you, how close you came to losing Peter yesterday. So, of course, you're not yourself."

June smiled again, all affection. "But allow me to be the voice of reason, in the face of all those very understandable things, and say that you're wallowing, that you're not making _any_ sense, and it doesn't become you one bit."

He couldn't help smiling ruefully. June was right, of course. He was overreacting—and that wasn't like him.

"I do have something else to confess from yesterday," he told her, heaving a sigh.

"What would that be?"

Neal gazed at her sadly. "I ruined another one of Byron's suits. And one of his best ties."

"Ah," she said. Her voice was grave, but amusement danced in her eyes. "Now, finally, we've arrived at the really _serious _regrets."

He gave her a wry look, yet he could tell she sensed the undercurrent of seriousness there. "You know it."

"They're only clothes, Neal," she said, regarding him fondly. "Not museum pieces. If I wanted them . . . preserved, I wouldn't have given them to you."

Neal nodded, letting out a long exhale and leaning his head back on the pillow. "I know. It's silly for me to even—"

"No, it's not," she declared firmly. "It's quite sweet, actually. And I have kept some of Byron's things, you know. To remind me of him. Of _us_."

June hesitated before continuing.

"But I want you to know this. When you first came to live upstairs, anytime I saw you dressed up, it would make me happy. Because I would always think, _There's Neal, wearing Byron's clothes, and looking so fine._"

He smiled, chuckling a little in spite of himself.

"And now," June continued, "when I see you dressed up, it still makes me happy. But now, all I think is, _There's Neal, looking so fine."_

Neal ducked his head. He could feel himself blushing—again, something he hardly ever did.

"They're _your_ clothes now, Neal. They . . . fit you. In every sense of the word. I love seeing you in them. And Byron would, too."

When he finally looked back at her, the emotion on her face took away whatever words he'd been about to say.

"And I'm sure I don't need to say this, Neal, but I will anyway. The clothes don't matter. At all. You do—more than I can say. I'm just so thankful that you're all right."

They exchanged another smile and silence stretched out between them. Neal found himself still—quite uncharacteristically—at a loss for words.

Maybe June, perceptive as she was, sensed his discomfort, because she changed the subject with alacrity. "So," she said briskly, "enough about the past. I think we should look ahead, don't you? So the most important question is: when can I bring you home?"

Neal couldn't help grinning shyly at how . . . maternal she sounded. "Soon, I hope. Maybe today."

"That's wonderful," she said, beaming at him once more. "You're going to get more TLC than you can stand, Neal Caffrey."

Having people around to care about him—well, it still felt strange. But it was something he could definitely get used to.

In fact, Neal realized, seeing the sparkle of unshed tears in June's eyes, feeling his heart swell in response—in fact, he already had.

* * *

Sometime later, Peter was kissing his wife goodbye and assuring her he was fine as he climbed out of the car at the hospital entrance. Peter did his level best to look smooth while doing this, but he sensed from her frown that he wasn't quite making it.

"You have your pills, right?" Elizabeth's tone indicated how dubious she was about the whole idea of leaving Peter on his own. She sounded for all the world like a nervous parent sending a child off for the first day of pre-school.

"Right here," he sighed, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. She knew very well where the pills were; after all, she was the one who'd slid the little bottle into his pocket when Peter had forgotten them. Truthfully, he hadn't exactly _forgotten _them—he wasn't a fan of the dull, drowsy way the pills made him feel—but he didn't plan to share that with Elizabeth.

"And you'll take one if you need it?"

"Yes, mom," he said teasingly.

El gave him a no-nonsense glare. "I mean it, Peter. You should be at home resting. I don't want to come back here and find you in pain. If you are, I'll know it. You know I will."

"You won't. I mean," he amended hastily, "I know you _would_, but you won't. If I need one, I'll take it. Don't worry."

"All right. I love you, hon."

"Love you, too. And remember, I don't have my cell," he said, "so just call Neal's room if anything comes up, or when you want me to meet you out here. We're not on a timetable as far as giving my statement, so there's no rush."

"I've got the number in my phone," she assured him.

_it's a good thing I had stored Elizabeth's number on my phone . . . ._

_That didn't happen, _he told himself firmly. _Get a goddamned grip on yourself, Peter._

He forced a smile onto his face, forced himself to wave his free hand cheerily at her as she pulled away.

The day was warm, but Peter felt a sudden chill. He shook his head and went inside.

* * *

At the doorway of Neal's room, Peter knocked softly and entered.

Neal was asleep—hopefully, he was merely asleep and not unconscious.

Peter couldn't help an unreasonable rush of relief that Neal was here, that he was safe. Not like in those ridiculous dreams he'd had. The relief was swiftly followed by embarrassment, though. Neal was fine; he was resting. Rest was obviously what he needed.

What he didn't need was an overprotective FBI agent to watch over him.

Peter sighed. Well, he was here now, and he wasn't going anywhere until Elizabeth came back. He was just going to have to make the best of it.

As quietly as he could, Peter walked over to the chair beside the bed. Grunting a little at the pain in his ribs, he eased down into it, mentally congratulating himself on the fact that at least he'd remembered to bring some reading material.

Peter studied Neal carefully. Best to take advantage of the opportunity to look him over now—when Neal wasn't awake to be annoyed by it.

Peter sighed heavily at what he saw. His consultant looked worse than he had yesterday, which wasn't surprising. Bruises usually got worse before they got better—and Neal's certainly had. The contusions around his eye and along his temple had spread and darkened overnight; if Neal's eye wasn't swollen shut, it would be damned close. Meanwhile, his forehead, which had been split open and then stitched, was now inflamed into ugly, dark shades of reddish purple—and also very swollen. Peter wondered if Neal would even be able to fit into one of his hats right now.

There was probably a joke in there somewhere, but he doubted Neal would find it funny. His consultant's face was just plain hard to look at; Peter wondered if he'd seen himself yet.

Neal would not be pleased.

As he examined Neal, Peter realized that his head was tilted to the side, at such an awkward angle that Peter had the urge to shift him into a more comfortable position. But as he reached out, Peter suddenly thought better of it. He remembered the dream (or hallucination, or flashback—whatever it had been) Neal had had yesterday.

Touching Neal while he was asleep might not be a good idea.

Peter let his hand fall back down. Before doing so, he did, however, pick up the front page of the _New York Times _and set it on the bedside table. Neal must have been reading when he drifted off; the crumpled paper had been lying across his chest.

His gaze moved to Neal's tray table, which held what appeared to be the remains of lunch. Surveying it, Peter frowned. There was some sort of sandwich, which, at first glance, didn't appear to have been touched. The bun was there, wholly intact, without even a bite taken out of it. But when he leaned in to do a quick mini-forensic investigation (poking carefully at the bun with a discarded plastic knife), he discovered that Neal had at least eaten whatever the main part of the sandwich had been—maybe a burger? Next to the bun was a small mound of what looked like macaroni and cheese; it was a lurid yellow-gold color that Peter had to admit was far from appetizing. The appearance of the fork indicated that Neal must have tried it—but the quantity remaining proved that he couldn't have eaten very much. There was also a bowl of Jell-O and a small, wilted-looking salad, both still wrapped in plastic. Peter wondered, with a little pang of concern, if Neal had wanted to eat them but been unable to get the wrapping off one-handed. _Surely he would have asked for help?_

Except that asking for help was not really Neal's _modus_ _operandi_.

"Excuse me, is he finished?"

Startled, Peter looked up to see an aide smiling at him and indicating the tray.

"Uh, I guess so," Peter answered, with another look at Neal, who was still fast asleep. If Neal hadn't wanted to eat lunch when it first arrived, he probably wasn't going to be any more interested in the food after it had sat around for a while. And it wasn't like Peter could force him to eat it.

Peter did reach out and snag the Jell-O, along with a spoon, also still wrapped in plastic. "I'll just keep these."

"No problem," the aide said, glancing at Neal. "Hey, if you think he'll want it when he wakes up, I can leave it all there."

"No, this is good," Peter assured him.

"Okay." With a nod and another smile, the aide picked up the lunch tray and exited.

Peter set everything back down on the tray table, throwing an extra napkin over the Jell-O, and settled back into the chair. He considered for a moment, staring at the bowl and then at Neal, before getting up and walking over to the phone. Keeping his voice low, he made a quick call.

Neal didn't even stir.

Returning to sit back down, Peter pulled out the latest _Sports Illustrated _and skimmed the list of articles. The one about the merits of advanced statistics in baseball looked promising. As a math major and a baseball fan, he considered the topic to be right in his wheelhouse.

Or, at least, it should have been. Instead, he found his attention wandering. Sometimes his mind veered back to the dreams again, but Peter resolutely pushed those thoughts away. When that happened, he tried to focus on his statement instead, thinking about what he would say and how he'd say it. Other times, Peter caught himself looking over at Neal for some sign of awareness (and seeing none).

After forcing himself to return to the same paragraph about the intricacies of offensive and defensive WAR (for what felt like the tenth time), Peter heard a rustling of the covers that made him look over quickly.

Neal was waking up.

As he folded the page down, Peter closed the magazine and watched as Neal came to awareness. He blinked in confusion a few times and then briefly grimaced in pain, but his expression brightened when he recognized his visitor.

"Hey, Peter!"

Experience had taught Peter that he was not a particularly adept liar, especially where Neal was concerned. So he'd already thought about what he would say when Neal woke up, keeping in mind the bit of diplomacy El had employed yesterday. Since it would be a lie to say Neal looked _better_ than he had, Peter had decided that he needed to go with something else, something that was technically true. After considering and discarding various options, Peter had finally come up with an alternative he thought would work,

"Hey, yourself," he said warmly. "You look a lot livelier than the last time I saw you."

"I notice you didn't say 'better,'" Neal observed, a sad little smile on his face.

_So he had seen himself. _"Oh, you'll be back to yourself in no time," Peter said, downplaying for all he was worth. "The important thing is how you're feeling."

"Tired. But better, actually," Neal confirmed. "I talked to the doctor. They showed me a bunch of my X-rays. It was kind of a mess in there." He gestured to his injured shoulder. "_And _I'm probably gonna glow in the dark from now on."

"That could make it hard to be stealthy," Peter remarked, letting a faint grin show.

"I know," Neal said, his disappointment both visible and audible. "Still, as broken clavicles go, I guess mine is a good one. No nerve damage, no lung issues, and no surgery needed. But moving is gonna hurt like hell for a while, or so they tell me. Gonna be in a sling for four to eight weeks,"

Peter nodded. "Well, you're not going to be at work for a while, I can tell you that."

"And I need to follow up with my doctor in a few days, to get the stitches out and get the shoulder checked." A little line appeared between Neal's brows and he frowned, struck by a sudden realization. "Peter, I . . . don't have a doctor."

"We'll find you one," Peter assured him.

"And no contact sports for eight weeks," Neal added.

"No jumping off museum roofs, in other words."

Neal looked pained. "You don't jump, Peter. You _rappel_." He stopped before adding the obligatory, "Hypothetically, of course."

"Of course," Peter agreed solemnly. "How silly of me."

"Very," Neal observed. "Really, I would expect better of you." He paused to survey Peter and changed the subject. "So, what're you doing here?"

Peter shook his head. "You really have to ask? I'm checking on you."

"You came all the way into the city to check on me," Neal said, disbelieving. "You, uh, could have called."

"Oh, I did call," Peter said, his voice firm. "You were asleep."

Neal knew that already, of course, but he decided to keep that to himself. "Still—"

"Well," Peter interrupted, "seeing you was part of it. I'm also going in to the office."

Peter was insanely dedicated to his job. Neal knew that; hell, _everybody _knew that. But surely even he wouldn't be going in to work after what had happened yesterday. Would he?

Neal didn't bother trying to conceal his impatience—or his irritation. "Okay, seriously? Peter, I don't claim to be an expert on FBI protocol, but if they aren't giving you the day off today, you really need to file a grievance or something."

"Take it easy, Neal. I'm not working, just giving my formal statement. About yesterday."

"They couldn't send someone out to Brooklyn to do that for you?" Neal asked, frowning.

"They could," Peter said, and something dark and unreadable flitted across his face before it disappeared. "I didn't want them at—I didn't want them to." He hesitated and gave a shrug that was just a little too carefully casual, "Easier to do it at the office."

Neal could easily sense his partner's disquiet—Peter might as well have been holding up a sign, for heaven's sake—even if he wasn't sure of the reason why. He _was_ sure Peter wouldn't want to discuss it. Instead he nodded and remarked, "I guess . . . I'm gonna have to give one, too."

Funny that he hadn't thought of that before. Now that he had, the thought was distinctly unpleasant.

_Because it really didn't fit in with his newly-formed philosophy regarding yesterday, which was to try to forget that the whole damn thing had ever happened._

Peter was observing him keenly. "Yup, we'll need a statement. But not today. I thought maybe tomorrow, if you're up to it. We'll arrange for an agent to come out with recording equipment." He paused. "I shouldn't be the one to do it, really, but I can arrange to be there if—"

"No, no, it's okay. You don't have to be there," Neal said quickly. This would be hard enough without Peter around. No, he'd be better on his own. Presumably Peter would read it, he guessed, or listen to it, or whatever, but Neal would just as soon not be around for that.

"Fine," Peter said, giving him a pointed glance. "I'll assign somebody. Do you have any . . . preference?" He was trying to gauge whether Neal would be more comfortable with someone he knew, or if it would be easier to speak with a relative stranger.

Neal gave a little shrug. "I get to pick, huh? I guess Jones or Diana would be fine. I mean, if they're not busy . . ." he let his voice trail off.

Pete nodded. "Sure, no problem."

"Whenever you want to do it is okay," Neal added. "Except . . . there's a lot I don't remember. And some of what I do remember is kind of hazy." He looked troubled.

_Lucky you, _Peter thought automatically. But instead, he nodded. "That's okay. Don't worry about it. Just focus on what you do remember, and don't guess—or worry about what you don't know. With everything you went though, nobody's going to expect you to have perfect recall."

"Will there be a trial?" Neal asked, the words out of his mouth before he even thought about them. He was a little surprised that he'd asked—and he could tell Peter was, too.

The agent studied him for a moment and didn't answer right away. "I wouldn't think so, but you never know. The thing is, he's not gonna be offered much of a deal, so maybe there won't be enough incentive to plead." Peter shrugged. "Hopefully his attorney can convince him that the difference in sentencing is enough. Anyway, that's a long way down the road."

Neal nodded assent.

A little pause ensued, long enough that it was on the verge of becoming awkward.

"Say," Peter said abruptly, "are you hungry? I could get something for you."

Neal sighed. "Nah, I'm fine."

"Except you didn't eat lunch."

Neal's gaze sharpened as he stared at Peter. His eyes darted down to where the lunch tray had been and around the room, just a little suspiciously. "And how would you know that? Were you hiding in the corner, earlier? Or surveilling me with some kind of hidden—"

"No, _Mozzie_." Peter gave him an exasperated look. "I saw your tray."

"Ah, and that makes you a dietician," Neal retorted, but he was laughing. "Look, I ate enough to keep from wasting away. _And _I ate a big, healthy breakfast, which I'm sure I don't have to tell you is the day's most important meal."

Peter rolled his eyes, accompanying this with an elongated sigh.

"And if you must know," Neal continued, frowning now, "the meals in here make prison food seem like _haute cuisine_."

"I know," Peter said patiently. "Which is why I'm offering to sneak something edible in from the outside."

"Oh," Neal said, looking mildly chastened. "Right. That's thoughtful of you."

"I'm not a complete ogre. Not all the time, anyway."

"Nah, not all the time," Neal agreed, chortling. "Appreciate the offer. Maybe later."

"In the meantime, how 'bout some of this delicious Jell-O?" With a flourish, Peter lifted the napkin to display the bowl he'd grabbed from Neal's lunch tray earlier.

Neal flicked one disdainful, disbelieving glance at it. "That . . . was there before."

"Sharp as a tack, you are," Peter said, grinning at him. "That's right. I saved it. Just for you."

"That's really nice, and all, but if I didn't want it then, why would I want it now?"

"C'mon, it's—" Peter leaned over and squinted, trying to get a better look, "I bet it's melon flavor," he said, trying to generate some enthusiasm. "Hey, you don't see that every day. It's seasonal."

"You know," Neal said, faux-earnest, "there's another really good reason why I don't see that every day. Or _any _day. Because I never eat Jell-O."

"Maybe you should broaden your horizons a little."

Neal looked heavenward. "Why am I completely unsurprised to learn that Peter Burke thinks of Jell-O as exotic? And your idea of a true dessert delicacy is probably a Twinkie."

Peter considered it. "I've always been more of a HoHo man, myself. Little bit more substance."

Once more, Neal gazed up, as if he were addressing the ceiling tiles. "Again, not even a little bit surprising."

"Don't be such a culinary snob," Peter scolded. "You know what the commercials used to say: _ There's always room for Jell-O_."

"Not in my cupboard," Neal said with a groan. "And, by the way, you are _such_ a liar. Because that's not melon flavor, it's lime. You know it is. And everyone hates lime."

"It could be melon," Peter insisted, adding slyly, "Why don't you try it and see?"

"Oho, very clever," Neal allowed. "But despite your best efforts, you are not going to goad me into eating that slimy bowl of Jell-O just to win an argument with you; I'm not that desperate. And if you're so eager to find out the flavor, then why don't _you_ eat it? Really, I'm happy to share."

"Your generosity is overwhelming," Peter said dryly. "All right, you're turning up your nose at the Jell-O, but maybe you'll be more interested in this." He reached into his bag.

It took Neal a moment to focus on what Peter was holding out to him. "The latest issue of _ARTnews._"

"Picked it up on the way. We thought maybe you could use some reading material," Peter said, looking a little sheepish.

"Also very thoughtful of you—thanks," Neal remarked. There was something oddly touching about just how hard Peter was trying today. He didn't have the heart to tell Peter that he couldn't really read at the moment. June had left her copy of the _Times _for him, and Neal had settled in to read it, eager for something to occupy his mind, only to realize that he couldn't concentrate on the words. Just a few minutes of trying to read had left his eyes tired, his vision blurry, and his head aching. (It also didn't help that his left eye was nearly swollen shut.) Regretfully, he'd had to give it up; that was when he must have drifted off.

The doctor had explained that activities like reading or texting could worsen his concussion symptoms. The warnings had been depressingly accurate.

To distract himself from his own problems, Neal scrutinized Peter instead. "So. You look tired."

"Yeah, well, I had a long day yesterday," Peter joked, trying to sound lighthearted.

Neal wasn't having it. "Followed by a long night, it looks like."

Peter looked away. "Not easy sleeping with this thing." He gestured to his sling.

"Tell me about it," Neal sighed, giving Peter a long, searching look. It was easy to see how distinctly uncomfortable Peter was with the whole topic.

For his part, Peter stayed quiet. Neal tended to be far too attuned to what Peter was thinking—and probably sensed that he wasn't being forthcoming. But Peter didn't care. He had no intention of sharing the fact that his sleep had been interrupted by nightmares about Neal and Elizabeth. It sounded completely ridiculous.

"But it'll get better," Neal added. Echoing his own words to Elizabeth, Peter realized.

Something in his voice made Peter narrow his eyes, wondering if Neal knew.

_He couldn't possibly. Could he? _Peter stared at him.

Neal smiled in response; it looked completely innocent. _Not that that meant a damn thing,_ Peter reflected.

"Hey, you just missed June. She was here earlier."

"Sorry I didn't get to see her," Peter said. "Nice of her to come. Especially since the more visitors you have to occupy you, the less I have to worry about you getting into trouble."

"I'll save you the effort—I hurt too much right now to even think about it," Neal admitted with a drawn-out sigh.

"Then stop being a tough guy and ask for some more pain medication," Peter retorted. He had marked, during the course of their conversation, how careful Neal was not to move and how little lines of tension, likely caused by pain, creased his face.

_Now you sound just like El._

"They're hopefully going to let me out today," Neal explained. "I don't want to be asleep when they come to discharge me—or give them any excuse to keep me."

"You can still have something to take the edge off without knocking yourself unconscious."

Neal shrugged and then winced involuntarily. Peter sighed.

"And you don't really look like someone who's ready to be released from the hospital," Peter said, eyeing him skeptically.

"Lucky for me, Dr. Burke doesn't get a say," Neal shot back. "Look, all I'm going to be doing is lying around for a while. I can do that back at June's the same as I can here. Much more comfortably there, in fact, than here."

"Yeah, if you don't count the huge flight of stairs back at June's."

Now it was Neal's turn to sigh. "She's got a spare room on the ground floor, Peter, we already talked about it. It's a big house. Seriously, you worry too much."

_he's so worried about you, Neal._

Peter blinked.

"—staying here one minute longer than is absolutely necessary," Neal was saying emphatically, apparently not noticing Peter's momentary preoccupation. "I'll break out if I have to. And you know I'm capable." He cast a sad glance at his sprained ankle. "Well, I'd be a little slower than usual, but I could still—"

"Yes, Neal, you don't have to tell me about your flight capability," Peter cut in. "And speaking of your potential escape, there's one minor detail."

"Anklet, right?"

"Yeah. Somebody from the office was supposed to put it on."

"Already done," Neal said, shifting his right leg a little under the sheets. "Thanks for telling Diana to put it on this ankle for now. Left one's all wrapped up at the moment."

"Least we could do," Peter assured him. "So Diana did it herself? I figured she'd send one of the probies."

"You know, I think she couldn't pass up the opportunity to lecture me."

Peter chuckled. "Lecture you? About what?"

"You can probably figure it out."

"Oh," Peter said, no longer laughing. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, looking ill at ease. "Yeah, probably. I, uh, hope she wasn't too hard on you."

"For Diana, she showed admirable restraint," Neal admitted. "I guess that's the silver lining in all of this: I'm too pathetic to be yelled at."

Peter forced a smile and changed the subject. "Assuming you do get out of here, El and I can take you back to June's."

"Nah, she's coming back with the car."

"You sure?" Peter asked. "Don't want you having to break out."

"No, June'll be here. She had errands to run, but she'll be back."

"Well, if there's a problem, you call me. I don't want to find out you were so desperate to get out of here that you took a cab home."

"I would call you. Don't worry," Neal said, looking mildly gratified at the concern. "Speaking of home, you didn't have to stay here last night, right?"

"Nope, El took me home and fed me soup."

"Oh, that's right . . . we kinda ruined your dinner plans," Neal said, sounding melancholy. From his suddenly downcast expression, anyone would have thought _his _dinner plans had been ruined. "I assume you told Elizabeth what she was missing?"

"Sure."

"Yes, but did you tell her _everything_?"

Recent events had given those words a wholly different, unsettling connotation for Peter, but he pushed that out of his mind. "I don't know what you mean."

Neal shot him a scolding look. "Now, Peter. You know exactly what I mean. And I'm guessing you didn't tell her, which means it falls to me to tell your charming wife how dedicated her husband is."

"Oh, enough," Peter said, groaning. "I already did."

Neal's eyes lit up with glee. "And?"

"She loved it," Peter admitted.

"Of course she did," Neal said, with that familiar sly, _cat-that-ate-the-canary _smile. (_Nothing at all innocent about that one_.) "Just wait 'til you wow the whole restaurant with your in-depth knowledge when you get there. You could go around the dining room answering questions about the menu."

Peter laughed. "Which can be anytime we want—did you hear what Jones did?"

"No," Neal said, interested. "What?"

Peter relayed Jones's over-the-top cancellation of their reservation, which, of course, Neal wholeheartedly endorsed.

"That is fantastic," he said, face alight with admiration. "I have to compliment Jones when I see him."

"Yeah, thanks to him, as soon as I'm out of this sling, we can go out on the town," Peter said. "I told El I'm not going there until I can use both my arms."

Neal looked away. "Peter, I am sorry about that. And for hitting you. I just—"

"Hey, what did I say about that?" Peter interrupted.

Neal's brows drew together in confusion. "Um . . . ." His voice trailed off as he tried to remember.

"I said to forget it, Neal. There's nothing to be sorry for. You couldn't help it that the gun ended up under the shelves. And a few stitches and a bruise or two—well, they beat a bullet in the head any day." Peter hesitated. "Which is what I would have had if you hadn't done what you did."

"You weren't so bad yourself, Agent Burke," Neal reminded him.

Looking out the window, Peter stared at the brick wall that served as a view. And listened to the voice echoing in his head . . . .

_. . . because an unarmed man, who's gotten himself chained to a shelf while his partner lies beaten and defenseless on the floor, is certainly an expert on __not making mistakes__ . . . ._

"_I_ ended up handcuffed to a shelf," Peter said, biting off each word. "And would have _ended _there, period, if—"

"You were in a no-win situation, Peter, because I let him jump me," Neal said firmly. He really didn't like this hesitant, guilty version of Peter. "And you took him down, in the end, remember? When I couldn't? Don't be so hard on yourself. How many times have you saved my ass?"

"That's different. That's my job."

Neal shook his head. "Nope. When it comes to life or death—and it sure as hell better not happen too often—this is an equal-opportunity partnership, Peter. Whether you like it or not."

Peter remained silent.

"I'm sure you've thought about what you could have done differently—I know I have." _You probably agonized about it, _Neal thought. "But what were your options? I mean, you covered the bases—for starters, you had someone watching the place. Speaking of that, how did he manage to get in?"

"What? Oh, underground access," Peter muttered, looking away again.

"So he got in through some kind of tunnel—which you couldn't have known about," Neal continued smoothly. "We go in, I wander away—not your fault. Then I get myself knocked out—also not your fault. Leaving you, at that point, with very few options."

He studied the agent for a minute and then added, "And speaking of life or death . . . well, I'm not exactly trained in these kinds of situations, but I was thinking that when you had the chance, you maybe should have shot me."

Peter started, not just at the words, but at the chillingly matter-of-fact way that Neal uttered them. His gaze swiveled back to Neal, who continued, "_Shoot the hostage, _right? I mean, you must have thought about it."

Heaving a long sigh, Peter didn't answer right away. Finally he admitted, "Not so much in the moment, but later on, yeah. I thought about it some."

A little smile played around the corners of Neal's lips, and he gave a nod that seemed almost approving. "Yeah, later, when you had time to beat yourself up."

"You seem awfully sanguine about the idea," Peter said gruffly, trying to hide how very _not sanguine _he himself was about the idea.

Neal shot him a knowing look. "I know, easy to be cool with it now. Don't get me wrong, it would have sucked. I mean, who likes being shot? But I want you to know, if we're ever in that position again and you think you need to, you have my official okay to let the bullets fly. Very, very carefully, of course."

"Good to know," Peter deadpanned, but the very thought was far too alarming—and he didn't want to contemplate ever being in that kind of situation again.

He'd decided, though, that there was one other thing he wanted to say about yesterday, and he might as well get it over with.

"Neal, listen, while we're talking about what happened . . . ."

Neal had sincerely hoped that the discussion of yesterday's events had concluded. That they could now return to their regularly scheduled banter about Jell-O, or rappelling off museum roofs, or something equally trivial. Registering the seriousness in Peter's voice, he looked up inquiringly.

Then he saw the look on Peter's face.

_Uh oh. Here it comes._

Neal didn't know quite what _it _was—but he was pretty sure that (unfortunately) whatever it was, it didn't involve museum escapes. Or Jell-O.

A pity, really.

_TBC..._

_A/N – A huge thanks, once more, to Devoregirl—this time for suggesting a Neal/June scene be included in this chapter. Again, once she put the thought in my head, I absolutely had to write it. (Though I can't discount the possibility that these friendly "suggestions" are really just part of a secret, dastardly plot on her part to make sure the story never ends . . . . ;-))_

_And thanks to ALL of the patient readers who keep reading and reviewing—your support and feedback are cherished! Final chapter will be posted soon, I promise._


	20. The Right Kind of Friend

**Chapter 20 – ****The Right Kind of Friend **

_**Many a man has been saved **__**. . . **__**by finding at a **_**critical hour**_** the right kind of friend.**_

— G.D. Prentice

* * *

In the time he'd been working with Peter, Neal had developed a habit of occasionally finishing the agent's sentences for him. Or jumping in to beat Peter to the punch of whatever he'd been about to say, when a space in the conversation created the opportunity. Neal couldn't deny that he derived an inordinate amount of pleasure from this. Sometimes he did it because he was trying (honestly) to be helpful; other times he did it to show off—or (secretly) to tick Peter off, depending on the circumstances.

Of course, Neal always watched for Peter's reaction, because observing that was half the fun (often, more than half). Sometimes Peter appreciated Neal's uninvited contributions; other times he was plainly annoyed by them—again, it all depended on the circumstances.

But there was no way Neal could jump in this time. Because, for once, he had no idea what Peter was going to say.

Waiting apprehensively for Peter to start, Neal's mind raced, wondering with a distinct sense of unease just how he was going to approach this. Peter abhorred talking about his feelings. And if the plan was to talk about _Neal's _feelings . . . well, for Peter, anything more emotionally complex than advising Neal to cowboy up would be a major challenge—not to mention a significant break-through.

Neal watched Peter, trying to pick up a clue as to where this was going, but all he could see was uncertainty.

Then a thought struck him.

_This isn't about you, Neal. _

_This is about Peter. _ _It has to be._

What was the standard procedure after an ordeal like what Peter had undergone yesterday? That it was best to talk about it, that it was a mistake to keep it bottled up inside. And if Peter really were trying to follow that prescription, it would explain his behavior. This cautious, tentative version of Peter that Neal saw before him—this must be Peter about to engage in some very uncharacteristic baring of his soul.

Or, at least, trying to.

And, Neal realized, with a flash of stark clarity, _his_ role in this should be obvious. Neal, as Peter's friend, should help him.

Neal's mouth went dry.

Because there was one small problem with that: Neal had already decided he was A-OK with not knowing the details. More than okay with it, actually; he was downright grateful. This morning, Neal had realized that his limited recall of yesterday's events was a blessing—after all, you didn't have to try to forget what you couldn't remember in the first place.

_After gaining their entry by picking the door locks, he'd abandoned Peter pretty quickly - something he now felt remorseful about, but at the time, he'd wandered away without a qualm. Peter was all for examining the premises methodically, but it was a point of pride with Neal that he didn't work that way. He was not the methodical type, never had been. Peter could handle the systematic stuff, but Neal thrived on inspiration and intuition and impulses he wouldn't dream of trying to explain._

_(Also, what Peter was doing was, without a doubt, incredibly boring.)_

_So after making a few appropriately snarky comments to Peter, Neal had begun roaming idly through the building, looking for something, anything, that was even mildly interesting. Maybe he'd stumble on what they were looking for, and he could crow to Peter about how his ways were the best._

_That initial burst of optimism had been quickly tempered by the reality that there was a _hell_ of a lot of crap stored in this warehouse. Neal had been leaning down to read the print on one of the crates when, suddenly, he'd had a peculiar sense that someone was behind him. He remembered wondering why on earth Peter would be sneaking up on him that way, remembered turning slightly to see. Then, out of nowhere, his head had exploded with pain._

_The first blow didn't take him down completely, but it did leave him reeling and dazed - realizing desperately, as he crumpled against the shelves, that he needed help. That he needed _Peter_. Except he couldn't speak; his mind was thinking the words, calling for Peter, but his voice had failed him. He'd reached out blindly for something to grab on to, to keep from falling, but his arms didn't seem to be working properly and there was no time, anyway. An instant later, the second blow brought shattering agony - and then darkness._

It hadn't been Peter behind him, after all.

And this time, acting on impulse and intuition had gotten him into some very deep trouble. (If Neal were being honest with himself, it wasn't the first time that had happened.)

Things got very vague and very jumbled after that—and everything was overlaid with a miasma of pain.

His sharpest memories from that point were those after he'd returned to free Peter, but Neal knew that Regal had shown him a very different side than what he'd revealed to Peter when Neal was unconscious. Even then though, a couple of times, Regal's true intentions had shown through. When Regal had _frisked _him (what a benign description of what that had truly been, Neal thought with a mental shiver). And Regal's response when Neal had asked, _do you want to hire me or lock me up? _The chilling smile on the bastard's face as he'd mused: _does it have to be one or the other? _

_That, _Neal remembered all too clearly.

Of the events prior to that, Neal had only some shadowy recollections: of a low voice and suggestive laughter, of snatches of words here or there, of pain in various places, of hands on his body - and a dim but pervasive sensation of choking, of gasping for breath. But if he didn't try to remember those things, if he very studiously _didn't_ concentrate on them, Neal was pretty sure they'd stay buried in his mind, growing dimmer and dimmer until they became nonexistent. Just like his injuries and the marks on his body—the undeniable evidence of the abuse Regal had inflicted—would fade with time.

The problem was that Peter didn't have that luxury. Peter knew everything, had seen everything. He couldn't just forget. And maybe the remedy for that was that Peter needed to talk about it.

Even if it was the last thing Neal wanted to hear. Even if he secretly dreaded the thought of hearing the details of what Regal had said, and done, because of the memories it might wake, the fears it could trigger. But that wasn't important, Neal realized. Because who else could Peter use as a sounding board? Who would know better than Neal, who could understand better?

No one.

Neal swallowed hard and sat up straighter in the bed. He could handle this. _He could. _Because Peter was struggling, and he deserved to know that Neal could be there for him, for whatever he needed. Neal opened his mouth to say the words that would help Peter get started.

But Peter spoke first.

"Neal, what you went through yesterday was . . ." Peter paused, so unsure of what to say - and so obviously annoyed with himself - that Neal felt a pang of sympathy for him (Peter was no doubt thinking the same thing Neal was: _you are really not good at this kind of thing._)

Peter took a deep breath and plunged in. "It—it has to be a lot for you to process."

Neal directed a sharp glance at him. Apparently he'd had been wrong; Peter was making this about Neal, after all.

_Well, that figured._

"Not just for _me_," Neal said pointedly.

Peter ignored the comment, just kept going in that dogged way he had, the words coming out in a rush. Like he'd planned this out and now that he'd started, nothing Neal said would derail him. "And you shouldn't hesitate, if you need it, to . . . talk about it. With me, if you want, or with someone else at the Bureau, if that would be easier. They have people on staff who can help in the aftermath of—of a . . . trauma."

He stopped for a moment and when he resumed, his voice was firmer, more like his normal authoritative tone.

"And you have just as much right to use those services as anyone else. I don't want you to think for a second that because you're not an agent that you—that you're not entitled. You are."

"Not an agent? So my promotion didn't go through, for real?" Neal joked, hearkening back to his comment of yesterday.

Smiling faintly in acknowledgment, Peter shook his head. "Sorry to disappoint you."

Neal couldn't help being moved. This was the sort of conversation that Peter absolutely hated—like the plague. Yet he was concerned enough about Neal to forge ahead with it anyway.

"Seriously, I appreciate that, Peter. It's very generous."

"No, it's not," Peter shot back; Neal frowned at how sharp his tone was. "It's not some kind of . . . gift. It's what you deserve."

"Hmm," Neal said thoughtfully. "So you're talking about a shrink."

Peter suppressed a smile at Neal's comeback, which was exactly how _Peter _had responded when Elizabeth had raised the topic.

_Sometimes he and Neal could be frighteningly alike._

"A _professional_, Neal," Peter answered, trying not to think how amused El would be if she knew he was repeating her, literally word-for-word—and keeping his face serious, because this _was _serious. "A counselor. In some cases, agents and Bureau personnel are required to see them, you know."

Peter thought Neal was going to ask if _he_ had ever seen a Bureau therapist, but instead, Neal eyed him appraisingly and (because he was Neal), asked the much more incisive question.

"Is that something that . . . _you_ would consider?"

_That was the question, wasn't it? _

Peter looked away, which he knew was an obvious tell, but he couldn't help it. He thought about Hughes, that knowing look in his eye as he said, _take some time; you may need it more than you realize. _He thought about his various nightmares. About waking up in a cold sweat, About Elizabeth staring at him in horror, frightened awake by his outbursts. About that hated, recurring voice inside his head that he couldn't seem to silence, no matter how hard he tried.

_About that horrifying flashback at the breakfast table, when El had massaged his shoulders and he'd been consumed by thoughts of Regal . . . ._

The pause in the conversation had gone on entirely too long, long enough to be awkward, and Neal, of course, had missed nothing. As Peter brought his gaze back over to meet Neal's, he saw his consultant watching him with narrowed eyes.

"Yeah," Peter heard himself saying. "Yeah, I, uh, I think I might." He caught Neal's faint flicker of surprise and added, "El suggested it."

The surprise faded. Affection and approval shone on Neal's face. "Ah. Of course she did." He paused for a moment before noting, "Your wife is . . . ."

"Smart as hell," Peter agreed.

That Peter would consider seeing a counselor (it sounded better to Neal than _therapist_) was simultaneously encouraging and worrisome. Encouraging because it did seem to be a common prescription for people dealing with trauma. Surely it couldn't hurt.

And worrisome because, for Peter to consent to talk to a stranger about his _feelings_, things must be pretty damned bad.

Still, Neal couldn't help feeling relieved (and a little guilty about that relief) that Peter didn't want to talk to _him. _

"I—I think that's a great idea," Neal began, but now he was the one searching for words to express himself. He and Peter had an unspoken understanding that they just didn't talk about these kinds of things. They weren't big on introspection or open displays of emotion (exasperation and sarcasm being notable exceptions).

Also, one of the hidden perils of being a con artist was that you spent so much time playing roles and concealing your emotions that it became second nature. And over time, the better you got at it, the harder it was to separate deception from reality. Even for yourself. It was possible, Neal had discovered, to get out of practice with expressing your own feelings—as strange as that might sound.

So, how did Neal say how sorry he was that Peter had been forced to watch Regal threatening him, hurting him? How did you say that it made you sick that Regal had used him as a prop, essentially, to terrorize Peter?

How did you say how maddening, how _galling_ it was that, thanks to Regal, Peter might now think of Neal as a . . . a victim—as someone Peter had to protect, because he wasn't capable of protecting himself?

And that didn't even scratch the surface of whatever Regal had said about Elizabeth. Neal would never forget Peter's stricken expression as he stared down at his wife's picture, removed from that bastard's pocket. While Neal had been unconscious, Regal must have searched Peter's wallet and plucked out that photo of her, specifically.

What else had he said, what else had he done, to put that heart-stopping look on Peter's face?

Neal didn't want to even think about that, and he couldn't imagine ever, in a thousand years, asking Peter about it. The very idea made him blanch. He was pretty sure Peter would consider the topic strictly off-limits. Yet . . . didn't Peter need to talk about it with someone? Surely he wouldn't talk about it with Elizabeth, would he? No. But would he talk about it with the therapist?

_Yes, _Neal thought. _He would.  
_

Neal hoped he would, anyway. Because he would readily admit that he didn't have the guts to ask Peter about it directly.

Then, of course, there was everything Peter himself had endured. He'd been handcuffed, held at gunpoint, pistol-whipped, and generally been forced to confront the very real possibility that he could be shot, execution-style, at any moment.

_How the hell did you talk about any of those things,_ Neal wondered. _Should he even try?_

"Well, I—if you ever want to talk about it, about anything, I'm here, too," Neal finally said. He hoped Peter understood that he really meant it. "I know how rough it must have been for you, and I'm a pretty good listener, so . . ." his voice faltered and he gave a little half-shrug.

It wasn't enough—it wasn't nearly enough—but at least he'd tried. How infuriating that, just when he needed it most, Neal's usual eloquence had completely deserted him.

There was warmth in Peter's eyes that he rarely let show, so maybe he did understand after all. "I appreciate that, Neal. It means a lot."

"And I am sorry," Neal said bluntly.

He watched as confusion flooded Peter's face. "For what?"

"For getting us into that mess in the first place."

Peter sighed. "Stop apologizing for things that aren't your fault. You're not the apologizing type." At Neal's look of mild surprise, Peter added, "Yes, I've noticed that about you."

"Fair enough," Neal allowed, "I'll stop apologizing, but only if you stop blaming yourself, too."

Looking down at his sling, Peter busied himself by carefully, pointlessly smoothing one of the straps with his left hand. "None of that should have happened, Neal."

Neal groaned. "We've already been through this. Did you just hear yourself? Stop blaming yourself for things that aren't your fault."

His fingers still fidgeting with the sling, Peter glanced up at him again. "Easier said than done," he admitted.

"Well, I don't blame you, so you shouldn't either," Neal asserted. "Just . . . remember that, okay?"

At least that drew a nod from Peter. _Better than nothing_, Neal thought.

He took a deep breath. "Since we're talking about this, I . . . want to ask you something."

Peter's expression turned ever so slightly wary, but he didn't hesitate. "Sure."

"You know I can take care of myself, right?" Neal said abruptly.

Whatever Peter had been expecting him to say, that was clearly not it. He stared at Neal for a long moment before answering. "I think we covered some of this yesterday. But yes, Neal, I do know that."

Neal really wanted to believe it was true—he _needed _to believe it. But, deep inside, he couldn't help wondering.

"You hate it when I say that you worry too much—but you do, Peter."

"Most of the time, I have my reasons," the agent muttered.

"I know, I know, but I want you to think about this for a minute," Neal said, his voice resolute. All of a sudden, it was very important to him that Peter _get_ this. "Suppose the worst had happened, yesterday. I mean, not that he killed you," Neal added quickly, looking disturbed, "but that he did manage to get away, somehow. You know what would have happened?"

Peter considered him, plainly not liking the turn the conversation was taking. "He said he would—he was going to drug you."

Hughes' words rang out in his head: _he was carrying quite the portable pharmacy._

"So you said. And maybe he would have," Neal admitted. "Or maybe not. But even if he had, then eventually, I would have woken up. And then I would have convinced him that I was on his side—I was already _doing _that." Neal sounded almost desperate. "Because that's what I do. I would have ingratiated myself and eventually figured a way out. Because that's also what I do."

The thought of anyone—especially Peter—seeing him as a victim made Neal's skin crawl. True, he wasn't an FBI agent. He wasn't going to intimidate anyone in a physical confrontation. He didn't carry a gun—and didn't ever want to. But he had other weapons at his disposal. He wasn't some weak, delicate flower. And he certainly wasn't helpless.

Peter gave a little half-nod. Not denying, but not exactly confirming, either.

Because, in his mind, that unwelcome little voice had returned to whisper, _but what would he have _made_ you do, Neal? _Involuntarily, his gaze wandered down, just for an instant, to the livid bruise that ringed Neal's neck, before returning to look Neal in the eye once more.

"Or—" Neal began, but he hesitated.

"Or _I _would have found _you._" This time, it was Peter finishing the sentence. "Because that's what _I _do."

"Exactly!" Neal said, looking (for once) delighted by the prospect. "And don't forget: I survived prison, Peter. Not exactly a walk in the park. And I _escaped_ prison, not that I have to tell _you _that."

"You certainly don't," Peter said, sighing. He scrubbed at his forehead resignedly.

"Over the years," Neal declared, more confident now, "I've dealt with my share of unsavory characters and difficult . . . challenges and I always land on my feet. With one," he paused to elaborately clear his throat and throw a pointed look at Peter, "very notable exception. Who happens to be sitting in this room."

That brought a smile to Peter's face (just as Neal had hoped it would). He opened his mouth to speak, but Neal cut him off, a warning note in his voice. "Please don't gloat, Peter. Not becoming."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Peter said gravely, and he meant every word. "Not today."

"Well, okay, then," Neal said, satisfied. He smiled back.

"But I think you're kind of missing the point," Peter remarked.

Neal's smile faded, replaced by confusion. "What do you mean?"

"You think this is about you not being . . . competent?" Peter scoffed. "You haven't had one day of formal training, but I'd stack you against any experienced operative, anywhere, anytime. I'm probably going to regret saying this—but I could send you to Quantico tomorrow and plenty of those instructors would have nothing on you."

"Ookay," Neal said slowly. While praise from Peter was always welcome, Neal could sense a _but _coming.

"I got all too familiar with your _competence_, during the three years I spent chasing you," Peter said, grimacing as Neal tried not to smile. "Not to mention the up-close-and-personal view I've had more recently."

"But—"

"And yes," Peter continued, "you can look out for yourself. You've been doing that your whole—" he stopped awkwardly, just in time, because, really, he had no business airing his private theories about the colossal disaster that must have been Neal Caffrey's childhood. "Well, for a pretty long time, I know."

Neal nodded, but this time he was quiet, a guarded look on his face.

"This is not about you being capable, Neal—far from it. This is about two things. One, that Regal is a sick, twisted son of a bitch."

"I know, Peter," Neal hastened to say, "and I'm not trying to trivialize that. I understand you had very legit reasons to be—" he'd been about to say _freaked out_, but then thought better of it—"to be concerned."

Peter nodded back, his expression grim.

"Okay, we agree that Regal was a first-class son of a bitch. And we've also established that I'm the most naturally talented, amazingly proficient operative you've ever worked with," Neal said briskly, looking gratified, "Now—"

"Uh, that last bit? Not _exactly _what I said," Peter pointed out - merely in the interest of accuracy, of course.

Neal waved a hand airily. "Semantics. Let's just say I'm pretty damned good and leave it at that. Now, what was the second thing?"

"The second thing . . ." Peter hesitated. "The second thing is that, yes, you _are_ talented. And proficient. I know you can look out for yourself, that you've spent a lot of time on your own doing just that."

He stopped and Neal nodded encouragingly. "But?" he prompted.

"But that was then. And this . . . this is now. You're not on your own anymore, Neal. Now, _I'm_ here to look out for you. And when I don't do that—for whatever reason—it becomes . . . a problem for me. It's not okay. If you - if you get hurt on my watch, that's _never_ going to be okay."

Neal's throat closed up as he locked eyes with Peter and saw the emotion there, the quiet intensity burning in Peter's eyes.

"That's how this works, Neal," Peter added. "I look out for you. It's no reflection on your skills; it's got nothing to do with that. It's just . . . part of the deal."

"Yeah. Okay." Neal's voice was husky, all of a sudden.

Peter didn't see him as a victim. Peter was just being . . . Peter. Normal, protective, Peter.

Which, Neal had to admit, wasn't a bad thing, really.

"But I get to do the same for you," Neal added. "That's part of the deal, too."

Peter's smile was wide. "After yesterday, I think that's crystal clear. Not that it wasn't already."

Peter watched him, watched Neal take that in. He didn't think he'd ever stop worrying about Neal (unless Neal stopped giving him reasons to worry—a possibility that Peter considered highly unlikely). But he appreciated that Neal was sensitive to his concerns—and cared enough to try to assuage them.

"By the way, you didn't really answer my question," Peter observed, circling back to the beginning of the conversation, since Neal seemed to have gone very quiet all of a sudden.

Neal frowned, not remembering a question. This was damning, depressing evidence of the fact that his brain was still not hitting on all cylinders: he didn't even recall whatever it was that Peter was accusing him of trying to evade.

Peter gave him a look. "Do you—do you want to talk with someone? About . . . everything."

"Oh. That. Well, technically," Neal pointed out, remembering Peter's words, "you didn't ask that as a question."

"Fine, Alex Trebek," Peter sighed. "I'm asking it now."

Neal fiddled with the spoon lying on the tray table in front of him, wishing he could turn the conversation back to safer topics, like Jell-O. He knew Peter wouldn't let him skate on this, though. No, his innate persistence (a nicer-sounding word, Neal thought, than _obstinacy_) meant he was going to demand a reply.

"Peter, I don't really remember that much."

"That's not an answer."

"Well," Neal muttered, "it's the only one I've got right now. Things are very hazy."

The agent's gaze was unwavering. "You keep saying that."

"Because it's true," Neal said, looking at Peter steadily.

"You mean that? You're not just saying that because you think it's what I want to hear?"

"I swear it's true." Neal considered breaking out his standard line about how he never lied to Peter, but somehow this didn't feel like the right moment for it.

Eying him skeptically, Peter looked like he was about to say something, like maybe he was going to argue the point, but a ringing phone broke the silence. They both glanced at it. Neal grunted and turned to reach over.

Peter sighed inwardly, watching Neal try not to wince in pain at the movement. At that moment, one of the hospital staff entered the room. "Just need to get some vitals," she said brightly.

Neal nodded a _yes _at the aide as he picked up the phone. "Hello? Oh, hey, Mozz." Neal frowned. "Is something wrong?"

Mozzie sounded impatient—not unusual for him. "Why do you ask?"

"Uh, maybe because I just talked to you?" Neal said, keeping his voice reasonable.

"So now I need a reason to call you?"

Neal rolled his eyes.

"And how are we doing?" the aide asked Peter as she readied her kit. He saw her react to the ugly bruising on his face.

"Hanging in there," Peter answered. She gave him a sympathetic smile. Working in a hospital, Peter reflected, you probably had to have a ready-made reaction for all the poor bastards you ran into (like him) who looked like they'd been beaten within an inch of their lives. "At least, I feel better than I look."

"Hey, is that the Suit?" Mozzie demanded, his voice ridiculously loud. Neal stifled a groan and moved the receiver further away. He was experiencing the early stages of a pounding headache as it was, and the sound of Mozzie shouting in his ear was not going to improve it any.

"Look, Mozz, I gotta go," he said quickly, "Uh, the nurse is here."

"No, put him on. I want to talk to him."

"It's a _she_, Mozz. And she's busy." He could hear Mozzie starting to splutter, not appreciating the faux misunderstanding. "I think—hey, you know what, you're breaking up," Neal lied. "Look, I gotta run. Talk to you later, okay?"

Mozzie was still talking—and not happily— as Neal hung up and smiled at the nurse. "Is this really necessary? I feel great."

"Quit trying to charm her out of her doing her job, Neal," Peter groused.

"Can't blame a guy for trying," Neal said, looking deep into her eyes (which actually had quite a lovely green-gold sparkle, now that he was really focused on them) and giving her his most brilliant grin.

"Oh, I don't blame you," she assured him, smiling back but not stopping what she was doing.

_Not as easily charmed as he'd hoped; so much for the black eye garnering any extra sympathy._

"What did Mozzie want?" Peter inquired. With a mouth full of thermometer, Neal could only give him a _who knows? _gesture, to which Peter nodded sagely.

Just then the phone rang again.

"Aahh," Neal said, still not able to form any words and motioning _no _at Peter instead.

"Oh, you're busy, I'll get that," Peter assured him, with a wicked little smile.

The aide finished taking Neal's temperature and was now bringing out the blood pressure cuff. Lifting his arm so she could encircle it, Neal watched Peter helplessly. " 'S okay, Peter, you don't have to—"

_Too late. _

Peter had already grabbed the phone. "Hello? Oh. Hi, Mozzie." To Neal he said, _sotto voce,_ "It's Mozzie."

"Great," Neal said, sighing. Like he couldn't have figured that out on his own. "I'll take that."

Peter ignored him. "Yes, it is. Neal's busy at the moment."

Neal sent a withering glare at Peter. "No, I'm not. Give me the phone."

Waving him off, Peter kept talking. "She's taking your blood pressure." To Mozzie, he said, "Neal? He's feeling well enough to try to charm the nurses."

Neal sighed, shaking his head and watching Peter listen to whatever Mozzie was saying.

Now Peter was scrutinizing him, a thoughtful look on his face. Neal eyed him warily. "What? Peter, what is it?"

"'_How does he look?'" _Peter echoed. "A little ragged. Truthfully, I would say," he declared, still ignoring Neal, "that he looks like a guy who got run over by a truck. Which is kind of fitting, since—"

Her tasks completed, the aide smiled at Neal. He managed a quick _thank you_ to her before she left and then burst out, "Peter!"

"Oh, Neal didn't tell you that part? Well, I'm sure he'll fill you in when you get back. When will that be, by the way?" Peter inquired in his most innocent voice.

Mozzie's voice was now loud enough that even Neal could hear it. "As if I'd tell you that, Suit." There was a pause. "Wait. Did you just say that he—he really got hit by a truck?"

"Excuse me, I'm _right here,_" Neal said, sounding and looking aggrieved.

Peter nodded, still not answering Neal. "Yes, he really did. But I don't want to spoil the story."

Mozzie lowered his voice then, so Neal couldn't hear the words. But whatever he'd said brought a grin to Peter's face that was almost affectionate.

"I know. I'll do that," Peter answered, voice turning serious as he regarded Neal. The grin was gone, as well. "I always do, you know."

He paused to clear his throat. "And, uh, speaking of Neal, he's apparently very eager to talk to you."

Peter held out the phone, which Neal grabbed rather forcefully. "Mozz, seriously? Why are you calling?"

"It's a sad day when I have to rely on the Suit—the _Suit, _of all people—to give me the facts about what happened, Neal," Mozzie blustered, sounding disgusted. "You do realize that this is a new low, right? This is—"

"When you come back, I'll tell you all about it," Neal cut in, glowering again at Peter, who merely raised his eyebrows at him serenely.

"Why not right now?"

"Because right now, I . . . I'm just tired, OK?" Neal let a plaintive note bleed through into his voice.

Mozzie was unmoved. "You forget that your lies don't work on me, Neal."

"Whatever, I'm fine, see you soon," Neal sighed and hung up.

Peter was looking far too amused. "He really does care about you. A true friend," he added solemnly.

"What was the point of that?" Neal asked, almost rhetorically, staring up at the ceiling. "He wanted to know how I _look_? I already told him that."

"I guess he wanted an independent, third-party appraisal," Peter suggested.

"What am I, a piece of real estate? Now I'm like a . . . a Lower East Side condo, or something?"

"Well, if you were, you'd—" Peter stopped abruptly, in mid-sentence, and closed his mouth.

Neal stared at him. "Go ahead, finish it. You were going to say that if I _were_ a piece of real estate, I'd be a fixer-upper. Right? Admit it."

Peter hedged. "But . . . one with lots of potential."

"Ah, don't bother to sugar-coat it," Neal said, letting his head fall back on the pillow dejectedly. "I know right now I have a face that would frighten small children." He closed his eyes. "Probably some adults, too, come to think of it."

"Hey, some kids would think you look pretty cool," Peter tried valiantly.

Neal didn't even answer, just lay there looking morose. Normally, Peter enjoyed ribbing Neal about his narcissistic streak, but not today. His CI's inherent vanity was a huge disadvantage at a time like this.

Some quick gear-shifting was in order, Peter decided. If Neal had been the one steering the conversation, he would have effortlessly engineered some clever segue to accomplish this, but Peter wasn't Neal, so . . . .

"Hey, I meant to tell you: ERT found the stolen art," Peter announced. "Plus some other stuff that's on its way to evidence."

Neal opened his eyes and gave him a look which indicated he'd marked the clumsy change of subject, but he played along willingly enough without comment. "Like what?"

"Some artifacts that may match items that disappeared from the Brooklyn Museum a few months ago. And a painting that appears to be an Alechinsky."

"Wow. That's more than just _stuff_, Peter," Neal chided. "An Alechinsky? The Guggenheim has several of his pieces; I saw them when I was there last year. And the Met, too. You say it's an original? Which one?"

Peter shrugged, secretly pleased at how easy it had been to shift Neal's focus. He should have known that art would function as the perfect shiny object to distract him. "Don't remember the name."

"Alechinsky's work is intriguing," Neal said eagerly.

Not for the first time, Peter wondered whether there was any artist, obscure or otherwise, that Neal didn't know about.

_And where the hell had he learned all this stuff? _

Peter listened (well, maybe half-listened) while Neal expounded on Alechinsky's fondness for Japanese calligraphy, the role of abstract expressionism in his works, and his membership in something called Cobra (whatever the hell _that_ was—it sounded like the bad guys in a James Bond movie, but the real explanation was probably a lot less interesting, so Peter didn't dare ask). Still, he nodded attentively and tried to look interested, heartened by the fact that while Neal sure as hell didn't look like himself, at least he _sounded _more like himself. And he wasn't obsessing over his battered face.

Even better: they weren't rehashing the events of yesterday, which Peter much preferred.

When Neal had finished pontificating, Peter said, "Well, scuttlebutt is it might be a forgery. We're not sure any Alechinskys are missing at the moment—gonna have to have an expert take a look at it."

"I know where you could find one of those," Neal said hopefully.

Peter grinned at him, raising an eyebrow. "Thought you might. So you're an expert on Alechinsky?"

"I am an expert on sooo many things, Peter. And don't try to argue the point because you yourself said as much. Just a few short moments ago, as I recall."

_Damnit, _Peter realized. _I knew I'd regret telling him that . . . ._

Neal's eyes brightened with pleasure and a toned-down version of his infamous _what-I-wouldn't-do-to-get-that _look. "That's fantastic. Can't wait to see everything. You—you _will _let me see it, right?"

"It's the least I can do," Peter assured him.

"Because if you didn't—"

'You'd probably just sneak in, anyway," Peter sighed. "Yeah, I don't need that."

"Me neither," Neal said. "I've had my fill of sneaking around warehouses for a while." He thought for a moment, a faraway look creeping into his eyes. "Though it's always more fun to contrive a way in."

"I would never have guessed," Peter said, gently sarcastic. "Kind of like how it's more fun to pick a lock than to use the key?"

Neal stared at him. "Someone has _really_ been paying attention."

"I always do. Also," Peter observed, "you and I have very different ideas about what constitutes fun_._"

"I would never have guessed," Neal said, mimicking Peter's line, but doubling the sarcasm and accompanying it with a smart-aleck grin.

"Only you would refer to using the key as '_handcuffs for dummies,_'" Peter said reminiscently.

"But it _is,_ Peter," Neal said, completely earnest. He paused and then added, "Be honest: you liked that line."

"It's very Neal Caffrey," Peter said. When Neal kept staring at him expectantly, he finally admitted, with a shrug, "Yeah, okay. It was a pretty good line."

Neal smiled in satisfaction. "It's a game, really. But it's not about _whether _you can do it—the fun part is working against the clock, you know?" he said, effusive now. "Using different tools and seeing how quick you can pick them. I mean, with something like a paper clip, or a nail file, I'm down to _seconds._"

'Yes, I'm aware," Peter muttered, then thinking, a little sourly, of how long it had taken _him, _using that safety pin. "Wait, when you're cuffed in front or behind?"

Neal looked bewildered, like Peter's question made no sense whatsoever. "Does it matter?"

_To you, probably not, _Peter thought, sighing.

"You know what, never mind," he shot back, exasperated. "And speaking of that, I'm aware of your . . . skills demonstrations, by the way. All those probies—out all that money."

Neal shifted uncomfortably. "You, uh, you knew about those, huh?"

"Well, since I'm not blind and deaf, yeah."

"Look, it's not my fault they underestimate me." Neal shook his head sadly. "And nobody's forcing them to wager their hard-earned money." His expression brightened. "Frankly, you should be thanking me. My demonstrations are the highest form of public service, and your overly-gullible young agents are learning invaluable life lessons. Hey, remember what you said earlier about the FBI instructors having nothing on me? Think of me as an extension of your training program. Like . . . Quantico North."

"God help us," Peter mumbled. Privately, he thought Neal was right—the probies _should_ know better—not that Peter was going to admit that to Neal. "I do have to ask, though—going back to the matter of the evidence warehouse, how _would _you get in?"

"Into a storage site?" Neal waved a dismissive hand. "The obvious way is to create a distraction. Pull a fire alarm or something. To divert the security staff."

"Pulling a fire alarm? You call that a plan?" Peter asked.

They both stared at each other. Neal started to chuckle first, and then Peter joined him.

"That line is really getting tedious, Peter. And I'll have you know," Neal said, sounding superior, "that a variation of that particular plan worked very well . . . once."

"See, now I can tell you're still off your game," Peter noted in a voice laden with sympathy. He shook his head in disappointment. "You forgot the _allegedly._"

"Peter, stop making me laugh. It hurts."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Sorry. Because I'm the one who should be laughing—since your plans are getting progressively more pathetic."

Neal scoffed. "As if I'd tell you my _real _plan."

"As if I wouldn't figure it out anyway," Peter retorted confidently. "You should know better than to underestimate me. Meanwhile, there's something else we need to discuss."

"Fine, go ahead and change the subject," Neal said, a tinge of pity in his tone, even as his inner antennae went up at Peter's phrasing. "What is it that we _need _to discuss?"

* * *

Back from her meeting (_yes, she'd cut it short, so what?_), Elizabeth entered the room, pleased at the sight of both of them smiling at each other, heads turning toward her as one upon registering her presence.

"Hi there, you two," she said brightly. "Neal, you're looking much perkier today."

Peter and Neal exchanged a glance. Neal looked like he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes, while Peter was trying to smother a smile.

"What?" she asked. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, of course not," Neal said, breaking into a rueful little grin. "It's just—do you two always have to be on the same wavelength, all the time?"

Peter chuckled. "That's what ten years of marriage will do for you."

"Guess so," Neal answered. To Elizabeth, he said, "Anyway, I'm feeling better—thank you."

Elizabeth nodded. "Glad to hear it. And did you—did you sleep well?"

At that, Peter glanced sharply at her; Neal registered it but didn't react. El didn't even look at Peter; her eyes were fixed, very deliberately, on Neal.

"Pretty well, but then again, I had some pharmaceutical help," Neal explained.

"Well, I hope you're feeling not only better, but also hungry," Elizabeth said, lifting the bag she carried. "Because I come bearing gifts."

She went to set the bag on Neal's tray and then made a little moue of distaste. "Ugh. Is that Jell-O? And why do hospitals always serve lime?" With one finger, she slid the bowl out of the way and set the bag down.

Neal and Peter exchanged another glance, Neal looking smug and Peter looking exasperated. "_That_ is, apparently, your husband's favorite dessert," Neal said. "Also, he swears it's melon."

"It is not my favorite dessert," Peter said defensively, "and I thought Neal might want a snack."

El laughed. "That's a nice thought, honey, but—Jell-O? Really? I mean, come on. It's Neal."

"And the reason hospitals serve lime," Peter informed both of them, now sounding superior, "—if in fact it _is_ lime—is because people like it. It's a very popular flavor. Also," he added, as an afterthought, "red is not a good color in hospitals."

Now Neal and Elizabeth were the ones to exchange a knowing glance. Peter could practically see the thoughts in bubbles over their heads.

_Just don't argue with him. _

_You're right, it's easier that way._

"All right, enough with the Jell-O," Neal said, examining the bag with interest. "Because that's . . . that's from Thai Gourmet."

"Indeed it is," Elizabeth remarked.

"Your favorite Thai," Peter chimed in. "Or, at least," he added in a sly tone, "that's what your cell phone records say."

Neal stared at him. "You . . . snooped into my phone records to determine my favorite Thai takeout?"

"No," Peter said patiently. "I snoop into your phone records because I want to know who you're talking to. Discovering your takeout preferences is just an added bonus."

Suddenly Neal's face had turned into a thundercloud. "Good to know Big Brother is alive and well," he muttered.

Then he noticed Elizabeth smiling—and Peter following suit. "What?"

"He's trying to make a joke, Neal." Elizabeth explained, sending a mild glare Peter's way. "And not doing a very good job of it."

Peter sighed. "Seriously, Neal. Like I don't have better things to do than worry about your phone habits. And anyway, why would I bother with that when I can just look in your fridge?"

Neal looked suspicious for a moment, but it quickly faded. "Oh. You checked out my leftovers."

"Uh, yeah," Peter answered. "FBI, remember? Trained to notice every detail. They put their name on the cartons."

"Well, as long as you've got a firm command of what's important," Neal said sarcastically.

"Hey, don't knock it—my keen powers of observation got you your favorite Thai."

Neal chuckled. "So they did. And thank you. Both of you. It's very thoughtful."

"Well," Elizabeth remarked, "Peter was afraid you'd starve to death in here." She glanced surreptitiously at her watch.

Peter noticed it. "Hon, do you need to go?" he asked. "If you have something else going on—"

"No, no," she said quickly. "No, it's just—I lost track of time on the drive back here."

Peter didn't seem to have observed it, but to Neal, Elizabeth seemed slightly flustered, like she'd been caught out. There was something going on under the surface with her, but he couldn't quite discern what it was. Neal wondered idly if maybe she'd had a fender-bender or something, and didn't want Peter to know.

"Look, if you're in a hurry, we can leave now," Peter assured her, smiling. "Neal can get along without us, I'm sure."

"Don't be silly. I just got here. Anyway, Neal is going to eat. Right, Neal?" At her pointed look, he nodded quickly.

_Something in her face made him feel he didn't have much choice._

". . . and maybe he'll need some help," Elizabeth added firmly.

Neal shot a look at her, careful to keep his face expressionless. She held his gaze until he let an easy smile break over his face and said, "Sure. The one-armed bandit thing is already getting old."

Just then, Elizabeth's phone buzzed. Neal noticed that she'd already had it in her hand.

"Hello? Oh, hi! Yes, he's here. Just a minute." She held her cell out to Peter. "It's Diana. She says—she wants to talk to you."

Peter looked surprised. "She's calling on your phone?"

"Well, you don't have one," she reminded him as he took the phone from her. "It's no big deal, honey."

"Right. Thanks, El," Peter said. "Hey, Diana. "What's up?" He paused. "At the hospital with Neal." Another pause. "Yeah, he's good . . . in a little while . . . yeah."

Neal was watching Elizabeth, but careful to hide that he was doing so. Meanwhile, Elizabeth was watching Peter (and doing a much poorer job of hiding it).

She also seemed oddly tense.

"Um, Peter, do you mind—can I get in there?" Elizabeth blurted out. "I want to help Neal with the food. And tell you _all_ about this totally out-of-control vendor, this is such a funny story," she said, her voice louder, now looking at Neal.

"Oh. Sure." Peter stood up, hesitated. "Why don't I—I'll just go outside."

Elizabeth smiled warmly. "Thanks, hon." She watched him walk out into the hallway.

Once Peter was out of sight—and out of earshot—Elizabeth's smile vanished and her voice dropped to a whisper. "Thank God. I thought he'd never leave."

Neal went very still, studying her with narrowed eyes. His gaze flicked over to the doorway where Peter had just exited, and then rapidly back to her face. "I don't—"

She talked right over him, in a very un-Elizabeth-like fashion. "We don't have much time. I'm not sure how long Diana is going to be able to keep him on the phone, and—"

Neal raised an eyebrow, looking impressed. "You planned this? Secretly?"

"Yes, of course," she said impatiently. "Now, how does Peter seem to you?"

"How does he seem? In what way?" He didn't try to hide his confusion, but he was careful to keep his voice low, as she had.

"Just generally . . . does he seem like himself?"

Neal hesitated. He was unsure of what she was looking for, and it made him wary. "Uh, he seems like . . . well, like Peter. More or less. Maybe a little distracted," he added, recalling how Peter had failed to notice that his wife was acting strangely. He thought for a moment. "And I did tell him he looks tired—"

"_Yes,_" she said, voice triumphant. "Of course he does, because—"

She stopped abruptly. In a flash, her expression had transformed from satisfied to apprehensive.

"What?" Neal still didn't know what she was getting at. (All he'd been able to deduce so far was that his fender-bender theory had been way off.)

Elizabeth wrung her hands, a tense, convulsive motion. "He—he's gonna kill me for telling you this."

"I doubt that." Reflexively, he broke out his most encouraging smile, the _it's okay, you can tell me smile (_one he'd had great success with over the years).

"Okay," she amended, still looking worried. "That's a little extreme. But he'll be angry."

"Oh, come on. Peter can't stay angry with you," Neal reassured her. "Anyway, it won't be an issue because he doesn't ever have to know that you told me . . . whatever it is. I won't say a word—unless you want me to, that is."

He just hoped this secret (whatever it was) wouldn't put him in an awkward spot. Most of the time Neal tried hard to not place himself in a position where he had to keep things from Peter. But Elizabeth seemed so anxious that he didn't even hesitate to make the offer.

She looked at the doorway, and the distress on her face was so obvious that now he was feeling worried, too, without even knowing why.

"Peter was . . . a lot more affected by what happened yesterday than he's letting on," she began. "Even to me."

Neal frowned as he nodded, waiting for her to continue.

"He hardly slept last night. He—he had terrible nightmares." She stopped and returned her gaze to his face.

Neal froze, his heart plummeting into his stomach. This was exactly what he'd been afraid of ever since he'd heard about Peter's three a.m. phone call. Still, he schooled his expression so most of the worry didn't show. Elizabeth was upset enough as it was.

When she didn't continue, he prompted neutrally, "Peter doesn't seem like a nightmare kind of guy."

"He's _not_," she said, sounding frustrated. "He never has been, but this was . . . this was really bad. I woke up both times and he was just so . . . upset, so desperate. It was like he—he wasn't himself." She shook her head. "And it scared me, Neal. It scared the hell out of me."

"Did he say what the dreams were about?" The question was automatic, but he already knew what her answer would be.

"No. He didn't say, and I knew better than to ask. I . . ." she hesitated and Neal's gaze sharpened. "I could just tell . . . he wasn't ready to talk about it."

That, he'd expected. But her next words shook him.

"But I heard things, Neal. Before he woke up. He . . . he said things." She hesitated again. "He called your name. Yelled it, really."

Neal grimaced and looked away. He took a deep, steadying breath.

"I was afraid of that. Peter had to watch while Regal was . . . well, he's a sadistic bastard. Pardon my language," he added quickly. "A lot of what he did, I don't even remember, but unfortunately, Peter saw it all."

She nodded, face filled with sorrow. "It must have been horrible. For both of you."

"Honestly, I think it was worse for Peter," Neal said. "We both know what he's like."

Again Elizabeth nodded. "Yes. But . . . but there's something else." She took a quick breath and exhaled slowly. "It wasn't just you. _I_ was in the dreams too—well, in one of them. At least, I think he was talking about me."

Neal felt a cold chill flood through him.

"I—I didn't tell him that I knew. It would only upset him more, but . . . Neal, I have to ask you. Do you know—do you have any idea why Peter would be having nightmares about me?"

Her fear, her worry was palpable. And heart-breaking.

He stared back at her, careful to look and sound shocked. "_You_? You're sure?"

Elizabeth nodded mutely, her lips pressed tightly together. Neal could see the tension in her face, her posture, in every inch of her.

_Shit_, he thought. Now things were starting to slot into place. His mind raced as he wondered how much Elizabeth knew, what he could safely say. Did she know Regal had seen the two of them at the Stanzler gallery? Did she know Regal had grabbed her picture? Again he thought back to Peter reclaiming the photo from Regal's pocket, that haunted, horrified look on his face that said there was so much more to this than Neal knew, things that must have happened while he'd been unconscious . . . .

Peter staring at the picture and saying, _He took it to get to me. He talked a lot about . . . leverage._

Then, suddenly, Neal recalled something he'd heard, right before he'd crashed into Regal the first time—but had forgotten until now.

Regal's mocking voice rang out in his head. _You have literally nothing left that I can't take if I desire it. Your consultant._

_Your wife._

Jesus_. _

_No, _Neal decided. That clinched it. She couldn't know. Peter would have told her as little as humanly possible; he'd want to shield her. What sane husband would let slip to his wife that a vicious psychotic had lovingly tucked her picture away into his pocket? No, Neal had to assume she knew nothing and act accordingly.

It struck him, then, how Peter had responded to his off-handed comment about why the FBI couldn't have an agent come out to take his statement.

"_They could," Peter had said, with that odd look on his face. "I didn't want them at—I didn't want them to." _

Now Neal was pretty sure he knew what Peter had been about to say.

_I didn't want them at my house. _

And the reason for _that_ was sitting next to his bedside, staring at him, luminous blue eyes filled with anxiety. Neal was sure of it; he'd never been as sure of anything in his life.

"He was frightened for me," Elizabeth said, her voice quiet. "I just . . . do you know why?" She looked away, biting her lip. "I'm sorry. There you are, lying in bed, and I'm being so selfish, I'm making this all about me—"

Neal shook his head. "El, don't apologize. You're concerned about Peter, and that's to be expected. I am, too. I'm glad you told me."

He looked her straight in the eye. "I don't know why part of the dream was about you," he lied smoothly. "But I wouldn't worry about it too much. In fact, if you think about it, it wouldn't be surprising for Peter's worst nightmare, always, to be something happening to you. With all the stress he was under yesterday, it probably just brought those fears to the surface."

"Do you think?" Elizabeth sounded hopeful. She wanted so much to believe him, he could sense it. She was _desperate _to believe him. Hearing that note in her voice filled him, suddenly, with a blinding burst of rage that Regal hadn't suffered more, made him wish Regal was here right now so Neal could do something to remedy that ...

_Focus, Neal. She asked you a question, and you need to sell the hell out of this._

"Yes, I do," he told her, automatically imbuing every word with complete confidence, the way he would with any mark. "I don't just think so; I know it. You mean everything to Peter."

_Well, the last part was true, anyway._

Under normal circumstances, Neal would have felt at least mildly guilty about lying to Elizabeth (unlike Neal's natural tendency, which was never to feel guilty about _anything_). But he had no misgivings in this case. This was one of those times when the end justified the means—and he was pretty sure that even straight-arrow Peter would have agreed.

Neal really hoped, though, that Peter didn't ever find out that Elizabeth knew about any of this. (And if Neal had anything to say about it, Peter never would know.)

Peter and Elizabeth were incredibly open with one another. Sometimes Neal thought it was kind of endearing; other times, he found their frankness excessive (maybe even bizarre)—but he couldn't deny that it worked for them.

This time, though, he was glad El had come to him instead of taking her concerns to Peter. Because if Peter knew that Elizabeth had heard him dreaming about her, he'd be appalled. Beyond appalled, no doubt.

And if Elizabeth knew why Peter had been dreaming about her, she'd be scared. Probably beyond scared.

This way, Neal could make sure neither of them knew . . . what the other one didn't want them to know.

Even if it did make him feel a little like some kind of creepy marital interloper.

Hoping to redirect things, he said, "You know, Elizabeth, Peter went through a lot yesterday; it's a lot to process." Which, he realized, was exactly what Peter had just said to _him._

Neal found himself glancing involuntarily at the door, much as Elizabeth had earlier. He had the sudden fear that Peter was standing there hearing this whole conversation—and just how the hell would Neal talk them out of _that?_

Fortunately, Peter was nowhere to be seen. _ Diana must be talking his ear off_, Neal thought gratefully. _Well, she had been unusually talkative this morning._

"Yes," Elizabeth sighed. "Which is why I took the drastic step this morning of asking him to talk to someone. A counselor."

Neal relaxed. This, he could talk about. This was good.

"I know," he told her.

"You do?" She looked surprised.

"Peter told me."

"Wow," she said. "I—I didn't think he'd mention it."

"Well, you can relax." Neal wondered if this was okay to reveal, and then decided it was. "He did more than mention it. He suggested _I _should talk to someone."

She nodded. "I think that would be a good thing for you, Neal."

"And then," Neal added, "Peter said he thought that he would, too."

The smile that lit up her face warmed his heart. "Really?" she asked hopefully. "He actually said that?"

"He did," Neal confirmed. "And even better, he actually _meant _it. I know when he's just paying me lip service, and . . . he wasn't. Which makes sense, because, as I'm sure you'll agree, one of Peter's best qualities is his recognition of how very wise his wife is."

Elizabeth let out a relieved chuckle. "No argument here. That's . . . that's fantastic," she said, excitedly. "I just want so much for him to talk with someone. I think he—he really needs to."

"He will," Neal assured her. "Between the two of us, we can make sure of it."

Nodding thoughtfully, she asked, "And what about you, Neal?"

He should have been prepared for the question, but somehow he wasn't. Peter was right: he was definitely off his game. "Me?"

Elizabeth tilted her head and raised an eyebrow, giving him her best _who are you trying to fool _look. "Yes, you. Will you talk with someone?"

"You sound just like Peter."

"And _you_ sound like you're trying to evade the question," she shot back without missing a beat.

Neal was conscious of his heart starting to beat just a little bit faster. "I'll tell you the same thing I told Peter: I don't remember a lot of it." He gave her a sheepish, little half-smile.

"So?" Elizabeth asked bluntly. She wasn't smiling, damnit.

"So . . . if I don't remember," Neal said, his voice perfectly even, "then what is there to talk about?" Maintaining his counterfeit smile was taking way too much effort. He could feel it flickering away like a dying candle flame.

She stared at him as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "But that's . . . that's almost worse, isn't it? Having someone . . . hurt you while you're unconscious?"

_God_.

Something twisted painfully in Neal's gut. Leave it to Elizabeth to be so much more direct than Peter would ever dream of being.

Neal really, really did not want to have this conversation—and yet he didn't know how to gracefully avoid it. Before, he'd been worried that Peter would interrupt them. Now he was wondering what the hell was taking Peter so long to come back. Hoping he'd return soon enough to save Neal from his wife, who was clearly wasting her talents in her career as an event planner.

She would have made one hell of an interrogator.

Elizabeth was still gazing at him, a calm but steely look in her eye that was eerily reminiscent of June's, earlier. Waiting for him to say something.

Unrelenting.

Really, Peter should hire _her _as a consultant. She'd be able to crack the most hardened suspects in no time at all.

"The truth is that I—I don't want to know," he told her, finally. She wasn't giving him any choice. "I just . . . I don't want to think about it."

Instantly, her face softened. "Oh, Neal."

He couldn't help but think that she was pitying him, and, God, but he hated that. Just as he hated making this admission to her.

"Look, Elizabeth, I didn't say this to Peter, because . . ." _because it makes me sound weak, _he thought, chagrined. Neal just let the sentence hang there, unfinished, before resuming. "I feel like the more I know, the more I talk about it or . . . try to remember, the worse it'll be."

He cleared his throat. "I'm _glad_ I don't remember. Maybe that makes me a coward—"

"Neal. _No_." She reached out, grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "Don't you say that, don't you even think it. Peter told me how brave you were yesterday, what you did to save both of you." She paused, gazing into his eyes. "Look, everyone handles trauma differently. This is not about forcing you to talk about something you don't want to. It's just that . . . if you need help, if you ever _do_ want to talk about it, you need to know that you don't have to handle it on your own."

He looked down at her hand, gripping his. "Thanks, Elizabeth."

"Thank _you_, Neal," she said, eyes just a little too bright. "For making sure Peter came back to me."

Neal nodded awkwardly and looked away, not knowing what to say. He could feel himself flushing, strangely uncomfortable with her unconditional gratitude. It felt wrong, somehow.

Again Elizabeth glanced at the door, expression changing to one of alarm. "Shoot. We better get these food containers open before Peter gets back here. You know how he is. You have to start eating or he'll be suspicious."

She pulled the containers out of the bag. Neal struggled to open one while she ripped the plastic off the utensils. She helped him get the carton open and Neal began eating hastily.

"This is great," he told her in between mouthfuls. "The hospital food is kind of . . . lacking. Thanks for thinking of me."

"Oh, no, it was all Peter." She smiled. "He was worried about you."

Neal groaned. "He worries too much."

"With good reason," Peter commented, walking back into the room. He gestured to the tray. "So, the food—you like?"

"I like very much, thank you." Neal smirked. "I mean, it doesn't compare to Jell-O, but . . . ."

"Great," Peter remarked, voice dry. "By the way, El, Yvonne beeped in while I was talking to Diana. I think you better call her."

"Oh, thanks, hon. I'll check in with her now."

Peter handed her the phone and watched her leave. Neal, observing, felt a strong sense of déjà vu that was confirmed by Peter's next statement.

"Okay, we need to make this quick," he declared. "I don't know how long Yvonne will be able to keep her on the phone."

_Did Peter and El have to be so incredibly alike? Apparently that's what ten years of marriage did for you, _Neal thought. This time, he wasn't at all surprised, and he decided he didn't have the energy to fake it.

"Let me guess," Neal said, figuring he might as well say something to move the conversation along. "Yvonne didn't really beep in, did she?"

"Sure, she did." Peter was remarkably pleased with himself. "Once I called her from the nurses' station and asked her to, that is."

Neal snorted. "The nurses' station? You badged them into using their phone?"

"Now, why would I bother pulling out my badge when I can just use my natural charm to get what I what?" Peter asked, shaking his head.

"Well, I'm glad you've at least learned something from me since we started working together," Neal retorted. "Okay, so you're very devious _and_ charming. And the point is?"

"The point is that two can play the devious and charming game. So . . . did you guys have enough time to finish talking about me?" Peter asked, working very hard to keep his voice casual.

_Damnit. _Neal sighed inwardly. _He knows. How does he know? _

Neal wondered if Peter was actually devious enough to eavesdrop, or if this was just Peter's infamous 'gut' talking. Because Neal's response would depend on which one was true.

Neal let out a long, slow exhale and shook his head a couple of times, using it as a delay tactic. "Really, Peter. Not everything is about you."

"There's a certain irony to that—coming from you, of all people," Peter noted, but he smiled as he said it. "I just meant, if the two of you needed more time, you should have signaled me somehow. I could have gone to the men's room. Again. Or—"

"We talked about a lot of things," Neal interrupted. He rubbed his left wrist on the blanket; the bandage was starting to get itchy. "And, yes, Elizabeth is worried about you. It's a very natural reaction."

"What did she say?"

"What, you weren't listening outside the door?" Neal joked, but Peter's serious expression answered the question. "Okay, you weren't. You do have _some _standards. Have you considered that maybe you should ask _El_ that?"

"Maybe, but right now, I'm asking you," Peter shot back.

"What if she swore me to secrecy?"

"She wouldn't." After a moment, Peter reconsidered. "Okay, she might. But . . . even if she did, you're not supposed to lie to me."

Neal sighed again. "Okay, fine. She told me she hoped you would get counseling. Which is hardly a secret because you told me that yourself."

"Oh," Peter said, relaxing a little. "Yeah. Right."

Neal didn't want to admit it, but suddenly he felt incredibly drained. Maybe this was just his injuries catching up with him.

Also, perhaps, the fact that the role of undercover marriage counselor was more taxing than Neal ever would have imagined it could be.

"You seem . . . tired," Peter said abruptly, his anxiety audible. "Maybe we should go—"

"No." Neal answered, quickly enough that Peter shot him a penetrating glance. "I mean, if you want to, of course," he backtracked a little, injecting some nonchalance into his voice ". . . but don't leave on my account."

"You should probably be resting. Sleeping."

"Oh, come on, Peter. There'll be plenty of time for that later," Neal assured him.

Peter still looked doubtful. "If you say so." He seemed ready for a new subject. "So," he said, "we should go back to what we were discussing when El came in."

"That's right, you said there was something we _needed _to talk about," Neal remembered. His fleeting worry that Peter was about to broach a topic Neal would strongly prefer not to discuss turned out to be for naught.

"Your hat."

"Oh, here we go again," Neal muttered under his breath, but he was smiling in spite of himself.

Peter's gaze was probing. "So you're really not going to tell me?"

"So you're really going to keep asking?" Neal asked, looking heavenward.

"After all we've been through," Peter intoned, an unmistakable note of disappointment in his voice—_he was really laying it on thick, _Neal thought—"I hoped that the least you could do would be to satisfy my curiosity about your hat."

"I can't believe we're back to that again."

Peter didn't reply, just looked back at him gravely.

Neal sighed. "What would you say if I suggested that you should embrace a little mystery in your life? That maybe, just maybe, it would be a nice change of pace if you didn't have to know everything, all the time?"

"I'd say that you were avoiding the question. And I'd say how disappointed I was that you feel the need to continue to keep this secret from me."

Neal shot him a quizzical look. "Secret, huh? This, _this,_ is the one you're worried about? Peter, do you have any idea how many secrets I—"

"Oh, I don't want to know about all your secrets, Neal," Peter said hastily. "Trust me on that. I'm only asking about the one. For right now, anyway."

"You really are fixated on this," Neal said, shaking his head in wonderment. "Which means that, however disappointed you are now, you'd be even more disappointed if I told you the real reason."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Guess." When Peter didn't answer right away, Neal added, his face the picture of innocence, "Didn't you say earlier that you could figure out all of my plans?"

The glare on Peter's face could almost be felt.

"You'll be very disappointed," Neal continued quickly, "to learn that there is no reason."

"No reason what?"

"There's no reason I didn't wear a hat today. I don't wear one _every _day, you know. I assume," he added, "that the always-observant, _trained-to-notice-every-detail_ Peter Burke has detected that fact."

Neal paused; when he resumed, his voice was lower, like he were musing to himself. "Or perhaps you've been too busy surveilling the take-out cartons in my fridge to notice _anything _else . . . ."

"But—" Peter looked confused. "Then why'd you make such a big deal of it?"

"I didn't," Neal informed him in a patient voice. "_You_ did."

"So why didn't you say that from the beginning?" Peter still looked as if he thought he was missing something.

Neal rolled his eyes. "Because I was busting your chops, Peter. Amusing myself. You make it way too easy, sometimes. I have to take my entertainment where I can find it." When Peter started to open his mouth, Neal raised a hand and spoke first. "And I _told _you not to blame me, when you were the one that brought it up."

"Well. I may have brought it up, but you—"

"At least you're finally admitting that you brought it up," Neal said, quite satisfied with himself.

Elizabeth stopped outside the door, listening to the bickering, punctuated by occasional laughter.

She smiled to herself, felt her heart lift.

_They were both going to be okay._

She had to believe that. Because if there was one thing the horrific events of yesterday had proven, it was that Peter and Neal looked out for each other. It was what they did. Always.

And she'd look out for both of them.

_FIN_

* * *

Story title inspired by the following quotation:

"_Many a man has been saved __. . . __by finding at a __**critical hour **__the right kind of friend."_

— G.D. Prentice

* * *

_A/N_

_"We as authors sign a pact with our readers; they'll go on reading because they trust us to play fair with them and deliver what we've promised."_  
― Pamela Glass Kelly

Thanks to everyone who stuck with this reeeeaaalllllly long story! I sincerely hope, in Ms. Glass Kelly's words, that I 'played fair' (well, mostly—despite all the frustrating cliffhangers and the interminable delays!). I hope that I delivered something you enjoyed, something that was worth your investment of time (which, if you've made it this far, is quite a considerable investment—and don't think I don't appreciate that).

I've had a blast with this whole experience. As much as I love the process of writing, the best part, hands-down, has been reading your feedback. I've had the most amazing back and forth with so many of you faithful readers and reviewers—words can't express how much I've enjoyed that. Your support and approval have helped me overcome my fears that the story wasn't nearly good enough. And, best of all, you've made this story so much better than I **ever** could have by myself—by contributing your ideas and sharing your reactions, which I was able to incorporate in many ways. Speaking of that, any comments/constructive criticism are greatly appreciated—as always! Would love to hear what you liked/didn't like - especially if you had a favorite line, scene or character.

It's beyond flattering that after 140k plus words—in a story that mostly took place in a couple of hours, in one room, no less—that so many commenters have said they wanted more—or even a sequel. I do appreciate that some of you didn't want this story to end, because there's no better compliment for a writer than that. I feel like I've told the story I wanted to tell (for now, anyway), but if anyone out there wants to write about Peter getting counseling (he will, of course) or Regal's associates wreaking additional havoc (always a possibility), well, you have my blessing because I'd love to read it.

The reaction to this has been so overwhelming that it almost makes me feel nothing else I write could ever compare, so maybe I shouldn't even try. I'd like to, though. (And I do have a large chunk of another story written, so hopefully someday it will see the light of day . . . .)

Thanks again.


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